All of Me
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: Pudgy librarian Belle French is in love from afar with town monster and ace reporter, Mr. Gold. Little does she know, he's head-over-heels in love with her, too. With a little help from Belle's chef and friend Marco, as well as Neal, Emma, and Henry Cassidy, can these two shy, adorable nerds find their way into an all-accepting love?
1. The Clambake

"'Cause all of me  
Loves all of you  
Love your curves and all your edges  
All your perfect imperfections  
Give your all to me  
I'll give my all to you  
You're my end and my beginning  
Even when I lose I'm winning  
'Cause I give you all of me  
And you give me all of you."  
All of Me – John Legend

Thank the Lord it wasn't bathing suit weather.

Belle French scowled down at the beach from the boardwalk, cradling a container of pasta salad. She was running late for Henry's birthday clambake, and if there was one thing Belle hated, it was making an entrance. People looking at her, watching her, judging her.

Slinging her bowl under one arm, she smoothed her free hand over her Kelly green sundress and peeked down anxiously at her red sandals. She'd already double-checked her lipstick in the car mirror. Stalling, Belle. You're already late, remember?

At least she could feel confident in her potluck offering—she was a pitiful cook, but Marco? His pasta creations would make angels sing.

In spite of being hurried—and a flushed face and the sweat that poured down her back to settle into her ample folds—she had to admit that the lush beauty of the September afternoon was perfect for a celebration.

The early evening sky was a brilliant blue, and the slight sharpness of the breeze heralded autumn's imminent arrival. A family of dolphins hurtled through the waves, water glistening on their sleek backs. Carried along by the pungent, tangy air, the aroma of sizzling seafood wafted in her direction. Her traitorous stomach growled, ruining her pleasure in the moment. Should have eaten before you came, Belle.

Standing overlong in the buffet line wouldn't help her reputation.

Look at them all down there, she thought, watching guests cluster around the hors d'oeuvres table and settle into lounge chairs to munch on chips and clam dip under a large, striped tent. Everyone was smiling, chatting, eating.

Belonging.

Henry's parents glowed with pride, catching the birthday boy's infectious grins, while his young friends pranced up and down the beach, hooting and hollering as they launched kites into the coastal wind.

It was as though she'd crashed into a Norman Rockwell painting. All that was missing were the bathing-suited beauties kicking their feet in the tide.

Even Sean, her former fiancé, was one of them. Beer in hand, he leaned down to whisper into the delicate shell of her replacement's ear. Ashley Boyd—leggy and blonde and beautiful by anyone's standards—screeched a laugh at whatever moronic thing Sean had said, and Belle cringed when he joined in with his own trademark guffaw.

Then they glanced back toward the boardwalk, turning their laughing eyes in her direction.

Belle froze. Had she been the punch line, the reason for their laughter? Heat flooded her cheeks, and she huddled deeper inside her cardigan and clutched the pasta bowl like a shield.

How on earth had she allowed Marco to convince her that this was a good idea?

"I don't want to go to the clambake," she announced.

"Bella, please." Marco sniffled and set a platter heaping with linguine and vodka clam sauce on the marble counter. "It will be good for you to see your friends."

Marco Strusievici was chef and owner of an Italian restaurant, but his home kitchen was where he and Belle talked and explored new recipes. As far as cooking was concerned, she wasn't suitable for much more than boiling water and jotting down notes for Marco, but she was an excellent taste-tester.

"You won't be there." Belle pouted, ignoring the steaming plate of goodness, and passed him the box of tissues at her elbow. Didn't he know? He was her friend. Her only friend, and she relied on him as a pass for situations exactly like this one. She rallied hopefully: "Wouldn't you rather I stay here, keep you company? Heat up some of your homemade stracciatella?"

"I can manage a small cold on my own," he said, wagging a wooden spoon at her. "A young bee needs young flowers. Don't waste away microwaving soup and brewing tea for an old-timer like me, cara mia. Go out! Spend time with people your own age."

"People my age are shallow," Belle said, fishing two forks out of the silverware drawer. Only children and old people looked past appearances. The outer package, no matter how large, didn't matter—they saw the heart within. Belle brushed a kiss across his whiskered cheek, warm with fever. "Besides, I like spending time with you."

"You know I love you like a daughter, Bella, and that's why I want to see you experience a full life," he said. "But if you won't go for yourself, do it for little Henry."

Henry. There was no denying her weakness for the precocious five-year-old.

"Miss Belle, you have the softest lap. Can I cuddle with you and read a story?" he'd ask, bringing his chosen book to her special rocking chair in the children's section.

"Yes, of course, Henry. I would love that," she'd say. And it was true. Belle would drop anything to read to Henry—read Winnie the Pooh countless times—no matter what else was happening in the library.

The child would climb into her lap and recline against her belly, tucking his thumb into his mouth with a soft sigh. "Read," he'd say, removing his chubby thumb long enough to blurt the order.

"Fine," Belle told Marco. "I'll go on one condition: you go back to bed. You look peaked."

"Deal," he said, punctuating the word with a sneeze.

"But bribing the fat girl with a vat of linguine?" Belle shook a teasing finger at him. "That's a low blow."

"You're beautiful," Marco admonished, shaking his head. "Perfect just the way you are. That's why I call you Bella. And the sooner you accept how special you are, the sooner everyone else will realize it, too."

Beautiful? She didn't feel beautiful. Staring down at tall, thin, perfect Emma Cassidy laughing in the sand with her throng of tall, thin, perfect girlfriends made her feel like a beached whale, or the elephant in the room, or some other terrible euphemism for things that were large and unwelcome and completely out of place.

Perhaps she'd simply drop off Henry's present on the overflowing gift table and make her excuses. Henry's present. She'd forgotten the large gift bag brimming with books in the car. There's always the library, she reasoned. No better place to give the gift of reading. Maybe she could give the little guy his present next time he came in.

But darling Henry was skipping from guest to guest, that brilliant smile still tattooed across his face, and Belle felt the corners of her own mouth creep upward.

No, she needed to stay. At least put in an appearance. Drawing a deep, cleansing breath and whispering a prayer into the breeze, she stepped off the boardwalk and into the sand.

* * *

Emma and Neal Cassidy squatted down in the sand and poked at the steaming seaweed. "Lobster's almost done," Neal said.

Emma nodded. "These clams are popping open, too."

"Babe, who's that?" Neal asked, nudging her.

"Who?" Emma looked up from the clambake pit.

"That lady over there," he inclined his head toward the punchbowl. "Long brown hair, nursing an iced tea, wearing a sweater when it's 75 degrees?"

"You don't know her?" Emma asked, surprised. "That's Belle French. Keeps to herself mostly, but Henry adores her. I haven't talked to her much, but there's something about her…she's engaging. Anyway, she was one of the three people Henry insisted on inviting to the party—Belle, Pongo, and Violet from school." She checked the names off on her fingers and laughed. "The rest of us don't even need to be here."

Neal chuckled. "Belle, huh?"

"Yeah, Henry begs to go to the library every day for her story hour," she said. "Usually, I let your dad take him once or twice a week. Gives me a break and it's good grandpa bonding time."

"Ah, that's why I don't know who she is." Neal scratched his head. "The library. I don't really go there."

Emma's eyes widened. "You've never been to the Storybrooke Community Library."

He shrugged. "I grew up in Boston, remember? Besides, I'm not much of a reader outside the can. Distracts me from looking at you."

"Hilarious. Also gross." She grinned at his mock leer, squeezing his thigh as she leaned over to peck him on the lips. "Honey, it looks like Belle's on her own tonight. I'm gonna ask her to sit with us, ok?"

"Any friend of Henry's." Neal rose, brushing sand off his knees. "Where is Dad, anyway? Finishing a story?"

Emma shook her head. "Finishing a surprise. For Henry. He called to say he's running a bit late. I told him it can wait until after the party, but you know your father."

"Yeah." Neal grinned at her, then cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. "Lobsters are hot, everyone! Come and get it!"

* * *

Gold couldn't believe his good fortune.

Henry's presents had been opened, the enormous chocolate cake consumed, and Belle French was seated cross-legged before the bonfire in the waning evening light.

The place beside her was empty.

Cloaked by the darkening sky, he stood in the shadows and looked his fill. The firelight cast a blazing halo around Belle's head, making her even more beautiful than in the daytime, if that were humanly possible. Shadows danced across her creamy skin and the flames painted auburn streaks through her dark curls. His palms itched to feel those fiery locks flowing between his fingers.

Her cobalt eyes stared unseeing into the flames, and he wondered what she was thinking about. Then she lifted her chin and caught his eye—a shy, fleeting glance—and trained her gaze on the fire once more.

Gold's throat felt like it was coated with sand, and he gulped. He moved to rake his hand through his shoulder-length hair, and as his fingers glided over his shorn locks, he remembered. He'd visited the barber earlier this week and asked Anton to give him a crew cut. First short haircut in fifteen years. It'd been time for a change.

Dinner was already underway when he arrived tonight, and he was brought up short by the sight of Belle cracking lobsters with his family. As was typical, most of the partygoers gave Gold a wide berth, but he was always welcome with his son and daughter-in-law. Neal motioned him over to their table, and Gold straddled the picnic bench across from Belle. She was buffered by Emma on one side and Henry on the other, their constant chatter allowing him to lean back and study Belle.

As the others laughed and talked, Gold's brain teemed with questions. Was Belle feeling well? Might she consider meeting him for tea or coffee sometime? And why she had barely eaten a single bite? While others had sucked down the shellfish bounty with gusto, Belle had done little more than nibble on a steamed clam and chase two small red potatoes around her plate.

For months now, he'd been working up the nerve to approach her during one of his library dates with Henry. On occasion she would catch his gaze while reading a tale in her husky, melodic voice—sometimes to a group of kids and sometimes only for Henry. And there he'd stand, transfixed, looking back until she returned her attention to her story and her young charges.

How many times had he strolled up to checkout counter, books in hand, determined to strike up a conversation? But words and courage always failed him, and with Henry at his side to fill the silence, Gold did little more than nod and smile like a bobblehead as he shoved a pile of books at her. He was a master of words; a man who loved a good turn of phrase, but Belle French reduced him to a babbling idiot.

Propped up by her elbows, she leaned back on the blanket and closed her eyes. Somehow he knew he was witnessing a rare, unguarded moment and he smiled as she flexed her dimpled ankles and wiggled her toes.

Loathe to disturb her peace, he circled the fire and wiped damp hands on his denim-clad thighs. He'd have been much more comfortable approaching Belle in his Armani pinstripe and one of his silk ties, but no one wears a suit to a clambake and bonfire—that would be preposterous, even for him.

Get a grip, Gold, he told himself, his stomach flipping over as the shoulder of her sweater slipped down, revealing a bit of plump, white flesh.

No. There was no way he would let this opportunity to be almost alone with Belle pass him by. You're a newspaperman, Gold. Talking to people is what you do. You just need a way in.

Sean Herman walked by, kicking a foot full of sand onto Belle's blanket, and her eyes snapped open. Gold grit his teeth as she shrank back. It was the push he needed to take action.

"Good evening, Miss French." He stabbed the ground with his cane and lowered himself to the blanket beside her. He brushed sand off the edge of the fleece. "Having a good time?"

"Hello again, Mr. Gold," she said primly. "Yes, of course. Henry is one of my favorite people."

"How diplomatic," he teased, stretching his bad leg in front of him to rub his knee. "That's code for 'I'm here out of obligation.'"

She opened her mouth, likely to protest, but he held up a hand. "I simply say the things people are thinking."

"Is that what makes you such a good reporter?" Her eyes flashed with a hint of something. Amusement? Annoyance? She'd shown none of that spark at dinner earlier this evening. This response was most unexpected from the quiet librarian.

"Indeed." He coughed. "Speaking of which, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. It's time The Storybrooke Mirror wrote a feature on the library."

Belle's face came to life at the mention of books, and she sent him a brilliant smile that made his heart gallop in his chest.

"Really?" she asked. "That would be amazing! I'm trying to raise money to supplement our Classical Literature section."

Gold returned the smile, enchanted by her excitement.

Lost in discussing her greatest passion, Belle rambled on about her plans for creating a writer's workshop, expanding their collection, and doubling the size of the children's library. She hadn't intended to stay for the bonfire, but Marco was still sick in bed and a night beneath the stars sure beat going home to be grilled by her stepmother, Edith.

So she continued talking.

"… and yeah, I think a story on the library is exactly what we need to build awareness." She drew a deep breath, suddenly aware that Mr. Gold's attention was focused a bit lower than her eyes, and the heat of embarrassment crept up her neck. Already she had bored him with her silly talk of books and library funding.

Nice going, Belle.

"This is fantastic, Bel-, er, Miss French." His warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners. "I must admit, most people don't care for the stories I write about them. That was the fastest I've ever been granted an interview."

"What?" Belle stiffened. When had she agreed to an interview?

"They don't call me the Town Monster for nothing, dearie." Gold's grin was white and wolfish in the darkness. "How about Thursday?"

"Um, sure," she said. As sole reporter and publisher of Storybrooke's only paper, Mr. Gold was infamous for exposing the truth about people. Yet her beloved library had nothing to hide. As long as the interview and the article focused on the library, not the librarian, there was no cause for concern. Right?

A heavy silence settled between them, and Belle stared into the dying fire. Nothing a pint or three of Mint Fudge Ripple couldn't cure. Belle took mental inventory of the freezer contents; she'd throw in some brownies stuffed with cookie dough for good measure. Too nervous to eat in the company of Emma and her family, she'd picked at her dinner, and now her stomach growled angrily in protest.

"I noticed you didn't eat much," Gold said as if reading her thoughts. "Do you not care for shellfish?"

"Oh, I wasn't really hungry," Belle lied. She tugged her sweater tighter around her shoulders.

"Hey, it looks like the party is winding down." He nodded across the fire to where Henry had fallen asleep on Neal's shoulder. Almost everyone else had left already.

"Yes, I should be getting home, too," Belle said, rising to her knees.

"Wait," Gold said, using his cane as leverage to jump to his feet. He stretched out a hand, meeting her eyes with a small smile. Reluctantly, she accepted his assistance, being careful to bear most of her weight. She released his warm palm like it had been branded in the fire, and bent down to shake the sand out of her blanket.

"May I drive you home?" he asked.

"No!" she said, dropping the blanket in surprise. "I mean, no, thank you." Gold moved to pick it up, but she snatched the plaid fleece out of the sand and shook it once more. "I have my car. I don't want to leave it at the beach. I need it to get to work…" Rambling again, Belle.

"All right," he said, glancing at the ground. "I'll see you Thursday at the library, then? For the interview."

"Thursday." She nodded, then turned around and stomped toward the boardwalk. Only four days away.

Belle was all the way to her car and firing up the ignition before she wondered: had Gold's face flashed with disappointment when she turned him down, or had she only imagined it?

###


	2. Family Ties

_Summary: Following the party, a surprise awaits Belle at home, while Gold gets some unsolicited advice from Emma._

 _A/N: Things are sad and angsty for Belle in this chapter, but I promise it's temporary and necessary. Remember the endgame: this is a love story, and it will have a happy ending!_

 _"You are not a mistake. You are not a problem to be solved." - Geneen Roth_

The memory of Mr. Gold's caramel eyes followed Belle as she steered her car off Ocean Drive and onto Beach Street for the fifteen minute drive home. Like twin laser beams, those eyes seemed to burn through her baggy dress and cardigan, clear to her soul. But they weren't the hard, judgmental stares she'd grown accustomed to from Sean or her family or strangers on the street. There was warmth in the way he looked at her; kindness and compassion. She'd _enjoyed_ his eyes on her. More than she had a right to.

His sudden interest in writing a story on the library was flattering, to say the least. In truth, she was flabbergasted. For all the times he'd visited the library with Henry, he'd never suggested doing a feature article before. What's more, he'd never spoken more than a few polite words to her before today. Perhaps the story had been someone else's idea and he was following through, like the diligent reporter and publisher that he was.

Yet the way he'd plopped down on her blanket by the fire and started teasing her was hardly businesslike. _Is that what makes you such a good reporter?_ Belle's haughty words echoed in her burning ears. His sudden approach had startled her and she'd acted like a shrew, snapping at him because he guessed the real reason she'd made an appearance at the party. But he'd merely flashed one of his earthshattering smiles, making her grateful that her bottom was squarely planted in the sand already. Gold's smiles never failed to make her knees wobble.

A shiver of longing curled up her spine.

 _Stop thinking about it_ _and remember where his true interest lies, Belle. He's a newsman. Asking questions and being attentive is in his DNA._

She pushed the image of Gold away as her empty stomach growled over the roar of the car engine. Belle had already decided that when she walked through the front door, she was heading straight for the kitchen. Her mouth watered as her brain layered wafer-thin honey ham and Swiss cheese on thick-cut bread smeared with soft butter. Kettle-cooked potato chips and pickles would make good accompaniments, she decided. And the ice cream she'd already promised herself was a must. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she imagined cold, decadent spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream swirled with rich marshmallow crème sliding down her throat, soothing a mouth dry from too many anxious hours of making small talk and pretending to fit in.

She deserved a reward.

Skipping dinner had not been a smart move, but being in the company of the Cassidy family had been overwhelming. They were all so… _pretty_ and _happy_ and _kind_. Henry's mom, Emma, had invited her to sit with the birthday boy and his family. Belle was grateful to be rescued from her usual spot on the sidelines, but the entire evening was still nerve-wracking and exhausting.

She'd served herself tiny portions of food, hoping to choke down a few bites, until Mr. Gold had set his own plate down at the table across from her and scrutinized her meal like it was the theme of tomorrow morning's food column.

Block parties and barbecue and potlucks . These events were a chubby girl's nemesis. Every time she was forced to eat in a social situation, it was a struggle. Should she throw caution to the wind and feast the way others expected her to, or to nibble in public only to end up binging in private later? Belle had read her share of books on proper nutrition and explored many a fad diet. She knew that skipping meals and gorging at night was disastrous for her metabolism. But head knowledge and heart knowledge were hardly the same, were they?

Belle's empty tummy kept up its steady stream of complaints until she pulled her blue Toyota Corolla into the driveway and went inside, relieved to find the house bathed in darkness. She closed the door with a soft sigh, bolted it, and kicked her sandals off her aching feet.

Feeling her way along the living room wall in the dark, she tiptoed past the staircase to the refrigerator and opened it, basking in its florescent glow and cool welcome. Here, at last, was solace. Holding the door open with her plump hip, Belle plunged a wooden spoon into the depths of the freezer, emerging with a heaping portion of Chocolate Marshmallow Paradise. She shoved a decadent bite into her mouth, groaning in pleasure as the flavor exploded on her tongue. In the dim light, she pulled mayonnaise, mustard, butter, ham, lettuce and cheese out of the refrigerator and plopped the armful of goodness on the back counter.

"Rather late for a snack, isn't it, Belle?"

She froze at the sound of the voice behind her, a block of Jarlsburg still in hand. Edith. Edith was awake. Awake and waiting up for her.

Belle turned around as her stepmother laughed softly and switched on the light, rising from her perch on the cracked leather sofa and crossing the living room toward the kitchen.

Belle's heart hammered in her chest and she squeezed the cheese, her fingers leaving imprints in the creamy yellow flesh. "You scared me! Why-why were you sitting in the dark?"

"I was worried, dear." Edith frowned at her watch, still adorning her delicate wrist despite her shimmering cobalt silk bathrobe and matching slippers. "You're usually holed up in your room with your books long before dark. What, did you have a date?" Edith's smirk told Belle she already knew the answer.

Belle lifted her chin. "I went to Henry Cassidy's birthday party."

Edith picked up the mayonnaise and sniffed in disapproval as her eyes traveled slowly down the length of Belle's body. "The Cassidys don't put out a large enough spread to satisfy?"

Belle recoiled at the verbal slap, shrinking back against the counter. _I couldn't eat_ , she wanted to scream, but she pressed her lips together. Those excuses would fall on deaf ears.

"You know what I always say, don't you, Belle?"

She sucked in a breath and tried to keep her voice from quavering. "A lady has to eat like a bird to look like a bird." Belle recited the hated mantra.

"Very good." Edith beamed, then picked up Belle's sandwich fixings and deposited them back on the refrigerator shelves. She filled a glass with ice and cold water, topped it with a slice of fresh lemon, and passed it to Belle. "Have this instead, dear."

Like a robot, Belle nodded her thanks and accepted the slick glass, thankful she didn't disgrace herself by dropping it. She took a sip and twisted her lips into a grimace. The taste of lemon nauseated her.

"Was Sean at the party tonight?" Edith asked. She glided to the kitchen table and sat, beckoning Belle to join her. "He's such a handsome boy. Come, tell me all about your evening."

"I'm really tired, Edith," Belle hedged setting down her water and, clutching the back of a chair. She had no wish to discuss her ex fiancé.

Oh, how desperately she wanted to wipe that smug look off Edith's face, to crow to the old hag that Mr. Gold himself had shown an interest in her tonight! Well, maybe not in her, but in her library. But she dared not allow the desire to gloat to overwhelm her good sense. If Edith caught wind of the ridiculous crush Belle harbored, she would torment her endlessly, hoarding that secret like a golden nugget to cash in when Belle least expected it. No, talk of Mr. Gold was off-limits.

"Pooh." Edith made a face.

Belle's tongue darted out to wet her parched lips. "Where's Daddy?"

Edith waved a hand toward the stairs and leaned across the table with clasped hands. Though she was seated while Belle stood, the older woman seemed to loom above her, and Belle took an involuntary step back. "Your father fell asleep watching the game, dear. I sent him to bed hours ago."

Of course, the game. Belle had forgotten that football season had started. She wasn't much of a sports fan, but Daddy was couch commando whenever the New England Patriots played. Many Sundays she would sit beside him and pretend to watch, feigning interest just to be near him. But he said little, and after drinking a few beers, scarfing a bowl of clam dip, and shouting himself hoarse at the television, he typically fell asleep sometime during the third quarter.

"He didn't even ask where you were tonight." Edith tsked. "It's a good thing you and your father have me to look after you both, isn't it?"

There was only one correct answer to that question, Belle knew. "Yes, Edith."

More than fourteen years ago—one year, two months, and nine days after the death of Belle's wonderful mama—Maurice French had moved Belle from Sydney, Australia, to Storybrooke, Maine, and wed Edith French (nee Foutainbleu.) Their month-long courtship had been a whirlwind affair in which eleven-year-old Belle had little say. From their first meeting at Clark's Old Fashioned Drug Store and Soda Jerk, the fairylike, ethereal Edith, who at 4'11" was two inches shorter than Belle's petite 5'1" stature, had made Belle feel like a great, hulking giant.

"Oh, Maurice," Edith had laughed, squeezing Belle's chubby cheeks between her hands as Belle sipped her egg cream. "She's such precious little barrel."

 _Little barrel._ At home later that evening, Belle had cuddled close to Daddy and burst into tears, but he just patted her back and insisted that Edith meant well. The woman had been offering her well-meaning advice ever since, and Belle had confined her crying to the privacy of her bedroom.

Edith prided herself on being the glue that held their dysfunctional little family together, taking it upon herself to help Belle reach what she liked to call "her full potential."

And as such, Belle still lived with her parents at the age of twenty-five. Even though her modest librarian's salary was enough for an apartment in small town Storybrooke, it was easier not to break the delicate bond. Daddy had suffered terribly after Mama's death; how would he feel if she left him, too?

But it was his new wife, not his daughter, who had brought the light into his eyes and a spring back into his step. That knowledge hurt, but Daddy's joy was worth any price. Besides, Edith wasn't so bad—her influence most likely kept Belle from ballooning up to 300 pounds. So Belle stayed. In the way, yet needed. Dependent, yet lonely.

"Now then," Edith called Belle out of her musings, tilting her forehead toward the ceiling and closing her eyes.

"Goodnight." As she did every night, Belle pressed an obedient kiss to Edith's crown. It was an odd thing, she thought, bestowing this affectionate ritual on a woman who only hugged her on Christmas and her birthday. But it kept the peace, and Belle so badly wanted peace.

Containing a sigh, Belle turned away from the kitchen and lumbered up the stairs to find her bed.

She locked her bedroom door, shucking her smoke-scented cardigan as she maneuvered through a maze of literary classics and novels. The sweater pooled on the floor, shrouding a volume of fairytales beside the bed _._ Still clad in her dress, she crawled beneath the duvet and pulled the covers around her shoulders.

Her stomach whined again, crying out to be filled, but even the fresh-baked whoopie pies buried under the winter pajamas in her nightstand wouldn't satisfy the restless ache she felt tonight.

Belle flipped onto her back and watched the shadows on the ceiling, Mr. Gold's dimpled smile filling her thoughts. She tried mentally alphabetizing the library's reference section, but sleep refused to come. Giving up, she rummaged through her nightstand until she unearthed her journal. It had been many months since she'd catalogued her thoughts and feelings. What made this early autumn day in September any different? Belle shrugged, then propped the leather-bound book against her pillow and scrawled the first words that sprang to her mind.

 _September 24  
Today I attended Henry Cassidy's birthday party. It was a great turnout, and of course Henry was as adorable as ever. Of course Sean had to be there with his perfectly blonde, skinny new girlfriend. Gross. Not like I care about Sean; she's welcome to him. I'd much rather be with someone more refined, more intelligent, more mature. Someone like Mr. Gold. Not like that's ever going to happen! In four days he's coming to write a story on the library, and I both dread and long for the day. Everything will be okay; I just have to remember why he's there and keep my cool. Literally. Extra antiperspirant. I'm sure Mr. Gold doesn't want to see my boob sweat._

* * *

Monday morning found Gold at his desk at the _Times_ , combing the Associated Press wires for stories to print in Tuesday's edition.

The town of Storybrooke wasn't large or newsworthy enough for a daily paper, so he published three days a week—Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Most editions contained little more than the obituaries, the ever-popular Citizens Sound Off column, and pages of small-town advertisements surrounded by all the national news fit to print. Sunday's edition would have a feature, usually about the local theatre group's most recent production, or any of the seasonal festivals Storybrooke held. He added a feature article about the library to his storyboard for the next week, which shifted his thoughts from his work to the beautiful librarian, Belle French.

He glanced out the bay window gracing the east wall of his office. From this vantage point, he could see the library entrance right across the street. It was nearing 9 a.m. and Belle would be unlocking the door any minute now. He took a sip of coffee and watched the street. Nothing suspect in that. He was a reporter and goings on were a reporter's business.

"Pick a card," Henry said, popping his head over Gold's desk with a giggle and spreading a stack of playing cards across the walnut surface.

"Hey! If it isn't my favorite magician!" Gold grinned and plucked the ace of spades out of the pile. "I didn't even hear you come in."

"I'm doing a magic trick for show and tell today," Henry said, winding his little arms around Gold's neck.

"Everyone will love it, Henry," Gold said, then turned to smile at Emma. "Good morning to you as well."

"Morning, Dad. I have those renderings of the new town hall you asked for," she said, handing him an envelope.

"Thank you." He leafed through the architect's drawings, pretending to study each one, when all he really wanted to do was sneak another look across the street. Still looking at the photos he said, "Emma, while I'm thinking of it, could you please call the librarian and arrange a photoshoot? I'm doing a feature on the library for next Sunday's edition."

"The _librarian_?" Emma drawled, hiking a pale eyebrow. "That's a bit formal. Don't you mean Belle?"

"Yes, that's right. Belle," he said, swiveling his chair around to stare at the computer screen. The way the light reflected off the surface allowed him to watch the street without being detected. Not that he was waiting for anything in particular to happen outside.

"Oh. My. Gosh."

"What?" The reflection of Emma's red leather jacket now dominated the screen and he frowned in dismay as she planted her hands on her hips, obliterating his view of the library door.

"What?" Emma mimicked. "You know, you suck at this absentminded professor game."

"Someone's grouchy this morning," he said, opening a new email and starting to type. "Did Granny's run out of hot chocolate?"

"You like her." Emma said. "Yes, you're _waiting_ for her to come and open the library."

"Preposterous." Gold squinted at the screen, pretending to concentrate on his work.

"Oh really? Who am I talking about?"

He spun around in his chair and pinned Emma with his most serious stare. "I am not waiting for Miss French."

"I knew it!" Emma snorted. "Dad, I saw you last night. You couldn't keep your eyes off her during dinner and now you're stalking the library door at opening time."

"The damn building is directly across the street from my desk!"

Emma crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "I swear, you're like a little kid. Did you pass her a note at the bonfire last night? 'Do you like me? Check Yes or No.'"

"Emma, please." Gold glanced helplessly at Henry. His wide brown eyes were volleying between his mother and grandfather like an audience engrossed in a tennis match.

"You're blushing, Dad," Emma informed him. "Belle is stunning and single. Why don't you ask her out? Are you worried about what Neal and I think? Because—"

"It's not Thursday yet," he blurted, cutting her off.

"What does Thursday have to do with anything?"

"Thursday is the day I scheduled the interview. For the library feature." Gold tugged at his collar. Emma was looking at him like he was crazy, and he felt every inch the foolish old man. Now she would realize he'd finagled that story merely as an excuse to talk to Belle.

"I see."

Understanding lit Emma's face, her soft, sympathetic smile making him feel even more stupid.

"I don't want your pity," he growled.

"Oh believe me, I don't feel the least bit sorry for you," she said, rolling her eyes.

He threw her a glare. "Doesn't Henry have preschool? And don't you have that shoot scheduled for the Lucas/Hopper engagement announcement?"

"Did you just dismiss me?" Emma asked flatly, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes. "Cause you know, I don't need this job."

"You're indebted to me for life, dearie," he snapped. But the threat was empty and his daughter-in-law knew it. He looked at the family photo on his desk. Emma, Neal, Henry—he'd walk through fire for them.

"Right." She nodded. "Come on, Henry, Grandpa needs to get back to work and you have a magic trick to show the kids at school." She laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and gently propelled him toward the door.

"Bye Grandpa."

"Bye Henry. We'll get some ice cream later, ok?" he offered.

"Two scoops?" the boy asked.

"Absolutely," he said, then turned back to his work.

"Dad?"

He looked up guiltily. "Emma, I—"

"No sorries." She shook her head. "Listen, um, we only have today, you know? Don't wait until Thursday. Go and see her. What have you got to lose?"

She didn't wait for a reply before ushering Henry out of the office.

The door closed with a click, and Gold sighed and looked outside again. There was Belle, right on time, looking breathtaking in sunny yellow skirt, dark curls tumbling down her back and an armload of books cradled against her belly.

"Maybe I will," he said, smiling as she unlocked the library door. "Maybe I will."

###


	3. Breakfasts and Beginnings

Summary: Backstory on our ace reporter, Mr. Gold, who's working up the courage to ask Belle on a date. And some awkward, nerdy flirting.

A/N: Fluff alert! Guys, I'm trying to stick to a Friday posting schedule and was going to post tomorrow, but heading into a busy weekend and I couldn't wait!

 _"The best feeling is when you look at him, and he is already staring." – Unknown_

Gold stayed away from Belle French for as long as he could.

After Monday morning's conversation with Emma, he accomplished exactly nothing for the rest of the day. He tried to work on the town zoning meeting article, but when he re-read his work, he'd written a vivid description of Miss French's sparkling sapphire eyes between the third and fourth paragraphs.

During his lunch hour, he ordered a turkey club to go from Granny's and ate at his desk. He told himself he wanted to people-watch through the large office window. One never knows where and when the news will strike, he thought, loosening his tie.

While finishing his sandwich, he surfed the internet in the hopes of finding a beautiful flower arrangement to deliver to Belle. Admirers sending flowers was still a thing, right? But then he remembered that Belle's father was a florist, so she was probably jaded toward flowers. Following an hour of scouring the web for blooms and their meanings, he gave up. Nothing seemed good enough.

Gold closed all the website windows and turned off the screen. Belle French made him feel an emotion he hadn't courted in years: uncertainty. Perhaps if he was more like the man he once was, he could approach her with more confidence.

He hadn't always been a small town newspaperman. Hailing from Boston by way of Glasgow, he'd been a top journalist at the Boston Globe and a single father for Neal's entire childhood. Gold had interviewed crime lords and heads of state; penned exposes on Presidential scandals and written features on half of Hollywood's A-list. Gifted with words and an expert judge of character, he'd earned the moniker "Gold" and had adopted it as his penname. In his twenty-five years of reporting, he'd brought the Globe six Pulitzer Prizes, countless peer accolades, and several other awards. He had even been courted to be a professor at the prestigious Annenberg School, but grading papers wasn't his forte.

Before he and Neal made the move to the obscure small town of Storybrooke, the news network ABC had even approached him about anchoring World News Tonight. They'd claimed his charming Scottish brogue would blow the female demographic away. But he'd had enough of the spin cycle. He wanted a slow-paced, quiet life—someplace he could settle down and enjoy his son before he was too mature to want his old man around.

But reporting was in his blood, and soon after their arrival, he started his own newspaper, the Storybrooke Mirror. It was a small operation, but he enjoyed the work. He could still write and publish; the printed word was still near and dear to his heart. In his first year, he would wake early every publishing day to watch the presses run.

Two years later, Neal met and married Emma Nolan and a year after that, Henry was born.

Henry was the apple of Gold's eye and he loved being a grandfather, but he wasn't ready to be classified as a geriatric. Gold had been only seventeen when Neal was born—the result of an accidental pregnancy with his high school girlfriend. That "mistake" had been the best thing that ever happened to him, and though raising Neal on his own was fraught with challenges, they had forged an unshakeable bond. That bond had only grown stronger when Emma and Henry had joined their family.

Sentimental thoughts of his loved ones brought his thoughts back to Belle French. Beyond her kindness toward his grandson, he barely knew the woman. But even after years of solitude, there was something about her that made him long for love. For companionship. Now that he'd had a taste of being in her company, he craved more. He needed to see her, and before Thursday.

The question was how?

Waltzing over to the library without a reason was out of the question. He and Henry had checked out books the other day, and the interview for the library feature story had already been scheduled. Emma had been assigned the task of arranging the photo shoot, and he didn't want to withdraw the assignment. If he did, he would have to call and explain himself or worse, tell her face-to-face while she rambled on about her women's intuition.

There was no way he would give Emma the satisfaction of being right.

Once again, he needed a way in.

He crumpled the brown paper sack that had contained his sandwich and tossed it on top of the trash bin. The lettering on the bag caught his eye and inspiration struck—he would visit Belle tomorrow and bring breakfast. Tuesday was an ideal day for a visit. On Mondays, he reasoned, people were coming off the weekend. Wednesday was too close to Thursday when he'd be meeting her for the interview. And she'd already seen him on Sunday at Henry's party.

Yes, Tuesday was perfect. Emboldened by his new master plan, Gold shut down the newsroom and headed home to his rambling salmon Victorian on Maple Street. Feeling light, happy, and only slightly like a schoolboy experiencing his first crush, he was even able to chuckle at Emma's tongue-in-cheek suggestion that he pass Belle a note in class.

* * *

Tuesday dawned bright and unseasonably warm for late September in southern Maine. Gold stepped into the damp morning air with new purpose, his plan to surprise Belle at the library with breakfast underway. Dressed in his favorite pinstriped three-piece suit and his lucky tie, he strode the sidewalk to the center of town as though he owned the ground he walked on, an uncharacteristic smile plastered across his face.

It was going to be a good day.

Gold entered Granny's Diner, Storybrooke's unofficial gathering place, and the smell of coffee and cinnamon lifted his spirits even higher. Even the dirty looks from proprietor Mrs. Lucas (he'd printed a poor review about her house lasagna) couldn't bring him down. He chose a wide selection of breakfast items and headed for the library.

Balancing two filled-to-bursting Styrofoam trays with one hand, Gold pulled the heavy, creaking door open. The sun was bright, so he entered the library slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust. Belle's laughter rang out before she came into view, the sound causing butterflies to take wing in his stomach.

With cautious steps, he approached the reference desk where Belle stood talking to a patron. The dress she wore today was slate grey, accentuating her magnificent eyes. Her auburn curls were gathered to one side, revealing the elegant slope of her neck. He wondered if the little white patch of skin behind her ear felt as soft as it looked.

Behind the desk, things were a haphazard mess. Carts stuffed with books lined the wall as water from several leaks in the ceiling pinged into metal buckets. Drop cloths scattered with insulation and pieces of drywall littered the floor.

Gold squinted up at the brown, sagging tiles. The water must be coming from the caretaker's apartment above. No one had occupied the space in years.

Handyman Leroy Kline was slung over a ladder, trying to fix the leaks. The other man paused in fiddling with the ruined ceiling to glare at him, then looked away. Gold smirked back. Kline was still miffed about his recent public drunkenness appearing in the Mirror, apparently. Leroy and his six friends had looted the park at the beach with toilet paper, leading to an overnight at the County Jail for public intoxication and disorderly conduct. His sin? Listing it in the Local Arrests column. Gold snorted. It was nothing personal. He was a reporter, and reporters made enemies every day.

"Good morning, Miss French," he said, ignoring Leroy's reproachful stare.

"Mr. Gold, hello." Belle drew her sweater closed and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Hey."

After a pause she said, "It's not Thursday."

"That's true," he said, growing a bit breathless. The trays were difficult to balance on one arm. His left bicep was shaking and his ruined ankle was begging for mercy. He eyed the polished surface of the reference desk. "May I?"

"Oh, of course! How rude of me." She relieved him of one of the trays and set it down, then peered over the edge of the desk. "Where's Henry?"

Gold shrugged. "Home with his mother, I expect."

"I don't understand."

Ah. She wanted to know what he was doing here. He tightened his fingers around the handle of his cane. "I brought breakfast."

"It's just that when you come in, you always have Henry with you," she said, looking toward the door as though his grandson would appear any moment.

"Not today." Gold frowned, starting to feel uncertain of his welcome.

"And you brought breakfast? For me? No one…" Belle pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly. "It smells wonderful."

He grinned in relief, ridiculously happy to have pleased her with this small, simple gesture. "It does and I'm ravenous. Have you eaten?" Please say no.

"As a matter of fact, I haven't," she said.

Thank you, Lord.

He glanced again at Leroy who had given up the pretense of working to stare at him with open hostility. Gold cleared his throat. He wanted to offer to help with the library, but he also didn't want to leave any doubt as to the reason for his call. He was here to see Belle, and Belle alone.

"Is there someplace we can talk and eat? Perhaps something with a bit more privacy?" he asked.

"Privacy? Oh! Yes, we can go into my office, if you like?" she offered.

"Great." He lifted the trays once more, and Belle hastened around the desk to take one.

"Cordelia, will you cover the desk for me?" Belle asked.

"Certainly, Miss French." A handsome older woman with a short crop of grey curls and sharp eyes pushed the book cart she was organizing closer and offered him a warm smile. Surprised by her friendliness, Gold returned the smile. He had not seen her around town before. Perhaps she was new or reentering the workforce.

Belle led him past the stacks toward the back of the building and though he tried not to ogle her backside like a common cur, he was enchanted by the graceful sway of her hips. Her scent drifted back toward him, a light yet intoxicating combination of vanilla flower and almond that rivaled the smell of their breakfast.

She ushered him into a small office crammed with bookshelves on every wall and cleared the desk to make room for the food. As he looked around, it occurred to him that there were no photos on display. Not a single one. A worn leather journal hit the carpet, flipping open to the middle. He glanced down at the words scrawled on the page. Interesting. Perhaps he had a chance with Miss French after all.

"I'll take that," she said, snatching the book out of his grip, snapping it shut, then shoved it into the bookshelf in the back corner of the room.

"I took the liberty of ordering several items off the menu; I didn't know what you would like." He handed her a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee and unveiled plates piled high with fluffy scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, potatoes, and toast, plus bagels and fruit salads.

"Mr. Gold, there's a ton of food here," she said, eyes widening at the spread. She sat down behind the desk and motioned him toward the chair across from her. "And you brought cinnamon raisin bagels."

"Your favorite, right?" he asked. "And please don't call me 'Mr.' Just call me Gold. Everyone does." He flashed what he hoped was his most charming smile.

"How-how did you know that?"

"Well, it is my name," he teased.

"No, no, about the bagels," she said.

Her eyes turned dark and serious. The answer seemed important to her, but why?

"I pay attention." He winked and poured syrup on his pancakes.

* * *

"You're not eating," Gold said around a mouthful of bacon. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Belle almost snorted at that. Breakfast was a dour affair in the French household, with Edith plying her with chalky low-carb protein shakes, plus a shot of wheat grass for extra grossness. No wonder all her drawers were stuffed with Little Debbie snacks.

"True, but I'm not very hungry this morning." Belle was actually famished, but since she was overweight, she denied it. Eating in front of others always made her feel self-conscious. Eating in front of the man of her dreams made her feel like she was giving a speech to 2,000 people—in the nude.

Forcing herself, she took a small bite of her scrambled eggs, then another and another. He smiled his approval, but Belle's nerve endings were frayed. An unexpected visit when the library was in shambles plus eating two meals in front of Mr. Gold in the span of three days was more than she could handle.

Most of the time she ate healthy meals (what was it, the 80/20 rule?), but she also loved a chilled peanut butter cup or four. It wasn't as though a couple of eggs were going to make or break her 214-pound physique.

"Granny's Big Ass Breakfast is my favorite thing on the menu," he said, waving his fork at the plate.

Belle dropped her fork and covered her mouth with her hand, nearly spraying a mouthful of coffee all over Gold's $3,000 Armani suit. By pressing her lips together, she managed to gulp down the scalding liquid and preserve the tenuous hold on her dignity. Big ass. Just like me.

"Are you all right?" he asked, limping around the desk to pat her between the shoulder blades.

"I'm fine," Belle said, leaning away from him. She was embarrassed, of course, but she waved him back to his chair. He resumed eating with gusto, and she seized the rare opportunity to observe him over the rim of her coffee cup. Never in her life had she seen such a small man consume so much food in one sitting. It was a sheer delight to behold.

Gold tore into a bagel spread with cream cheese and chewed vigorously. There was a tiny dot of the creamy, white spread on his thin, firm upper lip. On autopilot, she reached out to dab the spot with her finger, then retracted her hand before she touched his face. Thankfully, he didn't notice her gaffe, but just to make sure it didn't happen again, she sat on her free hand.

He'd cut his shoulder-length hair within the last week or so. It had been short at Henry's party, she realized, but she'd been too preoccupied to notice. She'd loved his hair long—what woman didn't fantasize about losing her hands in all that soft, thick floof—but the new crew cut was equally flattering, revealing precious pixie ears that she had the urge to nibble. Belle blushed at the carnal direction of her thoughts.

"You're sure you're all right?" His concerned gaze roved over her warm face.

"Mmm. Yes. Coffee. Hot." Great. Now she was grunting at him in monosyllables. Lord, I can't take much more of this. Please let him tell me why he's really here.

"Belle, I've been thinking," he began.

Here it comes.

"…about building a personal library for Henry."

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"Did I lose you? Books recommendations. For Henry. Brown hair, brown eyes, about 42 inches tall?" he joked. "He's got my eyes, don't you think?"

"Yes of course." Belle giggled nervously and began to rattle off book suggestions, but as she named Dahl and Seuss and Silverstein, she started to fret: If Henry had a beautiful library of his own, would he still want to come and see her? More importantly—and it shamed her to admit this—would his grandpa want to come and see her? Her palms began to sweat. There had to be more to this visit than recommending some books for a five-year-old. All right, she wasn't above begging.

"Why don't you tell me what you want, please?" she blurted.

His eyes widened in surprise. "I…don't want anything."

She shook her head. Not in her experience. "Everyone wants something. There must be something you desire." She felt the heat in her cheeks choice of words, Belle.

"Fair enough. I do desire something," he said, the low timbre of his voice causing her flesh to pebble. "I want to spend time with you."

What?

"What are you, some kind of chubby chaser?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I…what does that mean?" He looked befuddled.

"You own a newspaper," she said nastily. "Google it."

Now that Gold was looking her way and this outlandish fantasy of having a relationship with him was skating around reality, she didn't know how to behave. Or how to carry on a decent conversation, apparently.

"Belle…"

The perplexed look on his face made her soften. It wasn't his fault she looked this way. "It's someone who gets off on being with bigger people, just because they're, you know, big." Belle looked at the floor. She couldn't bear to say the word 'fat' in his company.

He reached across the desk to touch her shoulder, his fingers as smooth and gentle as his voice. "If you're asking me if I am attracted to you, the answer is yes. Belle, I like you. And I think, that is I hope, you might like me?"

"What gave you that impression?" she asked airily.

It wasn't like she had any right to play hard-to-get, but the magnificent bastard had the nerve to laugh.

"You've a wonderful sense of humor, Belle," he said. "I think we would get along well. Please, give me a chance. We've managed a rather pleasant breakfast. Perhaps we're ready to move on to another meal. Dinner?"

Was he asking for a date? With her? Belle was shocked, so much so that she couldn't articulate a response.

"No dinner? How about coffee? I like coffee. Or tea. Lemonade?" His brown eyes were wide and hopeful.

She had the urge to turn around and ensure that some gorgeous woman wasn't standing right behind her desk. Surely he wasn't addressing Belle French.

"You know what, don't answer right away." He stood up and began collecting the breakfast plates.

"Why not?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"That way, if you say no, I can spare myself the humiliation of being turned down by a beautiful woman in public." His smile was sheepish but his whiskey eyes were filled with sincerity. He captured her hand in his warm, solid palm and brought to it his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. "Call me when you're ready to answer. Take as much time as you need, please. I hope you'll say yes."

And before she could respond, he'd whisked away all evidence of their breakfast and was gone.

Belle made her way back to the reference desk on shaky legs. The conversation still buzzing in her ears seemed impossible to believe. Mr. Gold, arguably Storybrooke's most eligible bachelor, had asked her on a date.

Cordelia Potts, the new assistant librarian, was beaming so hard that Belle feared she might blow up and float away. "What a hunk," she said, nudging Belle with her hip.

"Who?" Belle asked, feeling dazed.

"Your husband, dear." Cordelia fanned herself with a copy of the library newsletter.

"Wait. Mr. Gold?"

"Yes, of course." Cordelia smiled again then gushed some more. "I hope you don't mind me saying how handsome your husband is."

Belle held up a hand. "Stop saying 'husband.' Gold's not my husband. I'm not married. I've never been married." Why she felt the need to further establish her singleness was beyond her. What a bizarre morning!

"Oh! Dear me. I'm sorry, Miss French." The older woman twisted her hands together. "It's, well, I'm new at the library and new in town and I simply assumed…"

"Call me Belle, remember?" she asked, recovering her patience. "And I know all that, Cordelia. I hired you yesterday."

"I'm sorry, Belle," she repeated.

"It's ok. I'm not angry with you. May I ask, though, what made you think Mr. Gold and I were, um, you know?" Belle couldn't say the word.

Some fantasies were too lofty, too wonderful to be breathed aloud.

"Married?" Cordelia asked, her eyes soft and dreamy. "It was the way he looked at you. Like you were the most important person in his world."

###


	4. Coffee and Sympathy

Summary: While Belle struggles with whether to accept Gold's invitation, Gold worries as he waits for her call.

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who continues to review and support this story. I cherish your comments and kind words. Marco is an Old World Italian, so he will be throwing around an Italian word or phrase now and then. "Gioia mia" is one my grandparents used to say and it means "my joy."

 _Not one drop of my self-worth depends on your acceptance of me. – Quincy Jones_

"Are you ever going to be interested in another man, Bella?" Marco asked, scribbling the day's lunch specials for Marco's Cucina on a large chalkboard.

"That was terribly blunt," Belle said, casting about for something to do with her hands. "Dating worked out so well for me last time."

 _Ah, there_. Potato wedges, hot out of the fryer and dusted with oregano and aged parmesan reggiano cheese sang to her from a wire rack. Belle snatched a few and shoved them into her mouth. Though she'd been ravenous this morning during the impromptu breakfast with Gold, she'd taken only a few modest bites of her scrambled eggs. She had put the treasured cinnamon raisin bagel aside to enjoy later, but she'd abandoned the beckoning treat in her haste to get to Marco's restaurant. Now she was starving. Here in Marco's kitchen, she could sample his lunch menu to her heart's content. Eating without feeling the weight of others' stares was a luxury Belle didn't often experience.

"Honesty, remember?" he said, stirring a pot of his signature spicy marinara sauce. "The cornerstone of genuine friendship. You and Sean ended your engagement months ago."

"Ok, then _honestly?_ I don't _need_ a man. I have you." She pushed a loose curl behind one ear. "Who else would beat the pants off you at Scrabble and make sure your pasta and pizza are fit for the customers? Anyway, look at me. No man is going to be interested in…this." Belle wiped fried potato grease on a napkin and waved a hand up and down her torso.

"That what you think?" Marco studied her over the rims of his spectacles, his Italian accent thickening as it often did when he became agitated. He nodded as if finding the answer he sought on her sweat-slicked forehead. "You're afraid."

"I'm not afraid. There's nothing wrong with being single." She thrummed her fingers on the steel counter. "I like my books. I'm content. What do I need a man for?"

"You're terrified."

"Am not." Belle put her hands on her hips.

Not a soul on the planet knew about her longtime secret crush on Mr. Gold. Not even Marco.

"Let me make sure I understand, Bella, because my hearing isn't what it once was." He dropped the long-handled wooden spoon into the pot and tugged at his earlobe. "This is no big deal, you're not scared, you're not going to give Gold a chance…but you stormed into my kitchen while I'm cooking for the lunch stampede to tell me all about his visit?"

"Oh, hush. What do you know?" Belle tossed her head, hearing Marco chuckle as she walked over to the salad station and began throwing greens into a bowl. "Glad I could entertain you."

She _had_ rushed across town to see Marco after Gold left. She was teeming with restless energy and desperate to confide in her dearest friend. Besides, she needed a short break from Cordelia, who refused to stop gushing about "that dashing Mr. Gold and his gilded tongue."

Wearing a sly smile, Cordelia had suggested that if Belle wasn't interested in a relationship with Gold, the library should host a poetry reading and one-man bachelor auction to raise awareness and funding. Belle had retorted that she was running a library and not a bloody dating service. Perhaps she'd been a touch defensive. But Cordelia Potts had worked at the library for all of two days. First she had insisted that Gold and Belle were already married and now she wanted to parade him before a gaggle of attractive, single women? Her new employee was already vying for the office of Queen of Unsolicited Advice.

Perhaps she should introduce her to Marco.

With lightening quick motions, Marco trimmed the tough outer leaves from an enormous fresh artichoke, the thistles still glistening with dew. Next he would stuff them with breadcrumbs, lemon zest, and parmesan cheese before steaming them to tender perfection.

She picked one up and smiled, thinking of summers as a child in her father's flower shop when she used to hide in the coolers and read books. "Did you know that artichokes are actually flower buds that haven't bloomed?"

Still wielding the knife, Marco beamed at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Such a smart girl. Did you know the Greeks and Romans considered these beauties to be aphrodisiacs? Maybe you could tell Mr. Gold about it on your date. I like him. Much better than Sean. You're going, si?"

Yes. Definitely sounding more like Cordelia all the time.

"I haven't decided yet," Belle said, quirking an eyebrow at him. Marco was supposed to be on her side. "Sean was bad news—no argument there. But what makes you think Gold is any better?"

"I know a gentleman when I see one," Marco said. "Besides, when you talk about him you bloom—like a flower stretching its petals toward the sunshine. That never happened with Sean."

"Most people in town don't like Mr. Gold," Belle said. But rather than deter her, the thought made her nerve endings crackle. It was one of the enigmatic qualities that attracted her to him the most.

"What people don't like is seeing the truth about themselves; or in this case, reading it in black and white print," Marco pointed out. "You say little Henry adores him, si? Children are excellent judges of character."

"True. Although I think Gold might have read part of my journal this morning. It fell open on the floor and he picked it up."

Belle tried to look disgusted, but it was difficult to summon the emotion. He'd asked her on a date after scanning the open page, which meant he didn't know what a freak she really was. Or maybe he knew and he didn't care? Belle wondered what exactly Gold had read, if anything. Her skull was beginning to pound.

Marco tilted his head. "Possibly. He is a reporter. Curiosity comes with the territory. The more important question is, why was your journal at the library instead of tucked into a safe place at home?"

Belle frowned. "Edith. She's been hinting around a surprise inspection."

Marco shook his head and Belle clamped down on her lower lip with her teeth.

"I know what you're going to say…" she began.

"You need to get your own place. _Is_ not right, Bella, the control she exerts over your life. Why can't you take a room at the inn until you find a more permanent solution? You could stay with me in Augustus's old room, too."

"I can't leave Papa." Belle shook her head. "My mother…"

"Your mama wants for nothing, child. She's in heaven singing praises with the angels, but I think her heart is a little sad, seeing you this unhappy."

"I'm not unhappy! Stop interrupting everything I say. Do Italians ever let anyone finish a sentence?" Belle huffed.

"I'll _stoppa_ interrupting you when you _stoppa_ changing the subject." Marco wagged his wooden spoon at her and a drop of marinara sauce splashed onto the immaculate tile floor. "You can fool other people, but you can't fool me."

"This is a fruitless conversation," Belle said, twisting her fingers. "What am I going to do about Gold?"

"Start by not assuming the worst," Marco said, his tone gentling. "I know you've been burned before and have good reason not to trust, but try accepting this invitation for what it is—a man who likes you and wants to know you better. You're a wonderful person…intelligent, kind, lovely. Gold would be crazy not to notice you." Marco smiled, his careworn face lighting with pride as he looked at her.

Belle sighed. Every instinct screamed to say "yes" to the date. She had nursed a crush on Mr. Gold for more than two years now. With Belle engaged to Sean, Henry always around them at the library, and Gold so wildly out of her league, it was the very definition of a safe infatuation. Now everything had changed over a couple of plates of eggs.

The few men Belle had dated cared only about one thing—sex. Sean had made no secret of the fact that he had dumped her both because she was too fat and because she refused to sleep with him. No doubt getting her into bed was the reason Sean proposed marriage in the first place. Oh, she knew everyone in town pitied her: _Poor Big Belly. Can't hold onto a man._ But when Sean had demanded she return his mother's ring, Belle had sagged with relief. She didn't love him—was terrified by the prospect of being shackled to him for life. But could she dare to break it off first? What right did she have to end a relationship?

Thankfully, Sean had taken the decision out of her hands. Yet deep within her battered soul, a cruel voice whispered that a man like Sean was the best a girl like Belle French could hope for. Gold, however, could have anyone he wanted. Why would he want her?

Belle felt like the unwitting heroine in one of those ridiculous high school movies where the school's would-be prom king accepts a bet to make the nerdy wallflower fall in love with him. Except her story didn't have a happy ending.

Even if this wasn't some prank or joke, it was only a matter of time before Gold grew either bored with her or tired of waiting for her make up her mind. Still, he had encouraged her to take all the time she needed. Gold, of all people, seemed to fear rejection from Belle French! It was a tale no one in Storybrooke would have believed. Belle's heart fluttered, the quickening sensation warming her blood as she pictured Gold's hopeful amber eyes, pleading with her to give him a chance.

"I have a suggestion." Marco broke into her thoughts. "Why don't you give Emma Cassidy a call?"

Belle tasted her salad and made a face. Too much dressing. The bitter tang of vinegar coated her tongue. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you can use a friend to give you advice. Someone to drink coffee with." Marco whisked her ruined salad away and replaced it with a bowl of freshly tossed greens.

Belle took a bite of the new salad and turned Marco's words over in her mind. Emma seemed like a good person. She had been warm and friendly at Henry's party, but they had never been school friends even though they'd been in the same class from fourth grade through high school graduation. No, she wouldn't call Emma a friend, but at least she hadn't teased her for being a fat loser the way other classmates had. That didn't mean cozying up over coffee and cookies sounded like a good time.

Belle deflected. "Are you dumping me?"

"No, Bella." Marco gave her a harangued look. "But I'm not a woman."

"Thank God." Belle shuddered and popped a crouton into her mouth.

If men were a chubby girl's worst enemy, women were a reflection on what society told her she should be. They forced Belle to confront everything she loathed about herself—and there was plenty. Yet she couldn't deny she was intrigued by the idea of befriending Emma. Emma was not only Henry's mother, she was Gold's daughter-in-law. Maybe she could tell her whether Gold's interest was genuine.

" _Gioia mia_ , I'm serious." Marco blew her a kiss. "I love you like the daughter I never had, but I'm an old man. I can feed you and talk sense into you, but I cannot help you with dresses and flirting and the important matters that young women talk about. Emma can."

"I'll think about it," Belle said, crossing the room to kiss Marco on the cheek.

"About Gold or Emma?" Marco asked.

"Both." She glanced at her watch. "For now I need to get back to the library. Heaven knows what Cordelia has been doing while I'm gone. Probably making up posters announcing Gold as the library's new spokesperson," Belle grumbled.

* * *

"King us," Henry crowed.

Gold ruffled the boy's dark hair and laughed. "You're a quick study, Henry."

It was family game night, and Neal and Henry were beating him at checkers. Gold was thoroughly enjoying the trouncing. Under ordinary circumstances, he hated to lose, but this was no ordinary day. A certain lovely librarian would soon would be calling to accept his dinner invitation. He held his mobile phone up to the lamplight, squinting at the screen. Full battery. Strong signal. Yes, any moment now, he would hear from Belle.

"You're in a good mood tonight," Emma said, setting mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table. "Especially considering the state of that checkers board."

"Yes I am," Gold nodded his thanks and raised his cocoa in salute. "And don't let this go to your head, but it's partly thanks to you. I took your advice and I went to the library this morning. I brought Belle breakfast. She was a little surprised, but I think she enjoyed it."

"You showed up…with breakfast?" The look on Emma's face could only be described as horrified. "Without calling first?"

His triumphant smile melted. "That's what you told me to do."

"No. I said don't wait until the trumped-up library interview to go and talk to her." Emma covered her face with her hand. "You need to call a girl and give her warning."

"And give her the chance to say no? Why on earth would I want to do that?" Gold asked, incredulous.

"It's called boundaries, Dad."

"I think it's all right. Really." _Who are you trying to convince, Gold?_ "And my interviews are not 'trumped up.'"

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Why are you so certain of yourself all of a sudden? Two days ago you wouldn't even say the name Belle French. You were in a panic."

"I don't panic," Gold scoffed. "Let's just say I saw something that gave me hope that my attentions wouldn't be rebuffed."

"And what could that possibly be?"

"Belle dropped a notebook in her office when we were having breakfast," he confessed. "A diary of some sort. I didn't mean to read it, so you can stop opening and closing your mouth like a fish! It just happened. She tucked it away and that was the end of it. I only caught a few words."

"Unbelievable." Emma shook her head.

"Well it's rather difficult to ignore it when my name jumps off the page at me, isn't it?" he said hotly.

Henry and Neal were staring at him with naked curiosity, the game all but forgotten. Emma was blowing the entire visit to Belle out of proportion, making him out to be some kind of criminal. His jugular vein began to throb and he tugged on his too-tight collar.

"What's your endgame here, Dad? Do you wanna score a date, or do you want to be forever friend-zoned when you're arrested for stalking?" Emma asked.

"Ludicrous," he sniffed. "I don't want to score at all. I detest American football. Besides, Sheriff Humbert is far too busy chasing Mayor Mills 'round her desk to actually see to law and order in this town."

"Very smooth," Emma said, rolling her eyes.

"Son?" Gold sent Neal a pleading look, but not before Gold intercepted Emma's don't-you-dare-defend-him glare.

"Pop, you're the family wordsmith, not me," Neal said, jumping to his feet. "I'm sure you can talk your way out of this one…or into this one? Yeah. I don't know."

"You must have said or done something to win this shrew over," Gold muttered, glaring at Emma. "Don't you have any words of wisdom for your father?"

"I think we both know I married way above my station," Neal said as he pulled Emma against his side. "I have no idea what I did to deserve her, but I don't need to give her a reason to notice." Neal planted a lingering kiss to Emma's cheek. She crossed her arms over her chest but there was a hint of a smile on her face.

"Indeed." Gold tried to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

Causing a rift between his son and his wife wasn't his intention, but right now he needed their support. He'd never felt this way about a woman, and his last relationship had ended with him as a teenage father, raising an infant son on his own. Reentering the dating arena after twenty-five years on the sidelines was not for the faint of heart.

"If you want a house built or a wall knocked down—the literal kind—I'm your guy. Cassidy Construction, at your service." Neal grinned, then turned toward Henry. "And speaking of building, I think there's a tub of Lego Duplos in your room with our name on it, Henry. Let's go build some towers and knock 'em down, ok?"

"Ok. Daddy, is Grandpa going to jail for staring at Miss Belle in the library?" Henry asked, allowing Neal to take his hand and lead him upstairs.

"Nah," Neal said, throwing another grin over his shoulder. "Grandpa's way too smart to wind up in the clink. Don't you worry about a thing, kiddo."

"Good night, Henry." Gold waited for his son and grandson to reach the top of the stairs before sinking onto the sofa with a weary sigh. "I botched it, didn't I?"

"No, that's not what I meant." Emma crossed the room to sit down next to him and patted his hand. "I'm sorry for being so harsh. I don't think I understood how much Belle means to you until now. You really, really like her, don't you?"

"Yes." Gold pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

"You're already half in love with her."

"Maybe," Gold acknowledged, leaning back against the cushion.

"You want to marry her."

"Enough, Emma." He pressed his hot mug against his closed eyelids. "Ugh. Do you have anything for a migraine?"

"Sorry," Emma offered. "I won't say anything else."

"Thank God."

She was quiet for all of fifteen seconds. "I'm think I'm going to call Belle."

"Call her? To say what?" Gold snapped his eyes open.

"I haven't arranged her photo shoot yet," Emma said. "Well, I tried. But she hasn't returned my call. When I try again, I'll tack on an invite for coffee. Put in good word about what a terrific guy you are. Girl stuff."

"I don't hate the idea of you talking to her," he said thoughtfully. "I think she's interested in me, but I can tell she doesn't trust me. She's guarded. It's like there's a wall around her heart and she seems determined to keep me at a distance. I'd hoped she was going to call me tonight, but now I'm wondering if I haven't scared her away for good."

"I know a little something about breaking down walls, too," Emma said wryly. "I'll call her tomorrow."

The peal of a telephone rent the air.

"Yours," Gold said. "No. Mine!" He didn't recognize the number, but he sat up quickly and answered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Gold? Hi. It's um, it's me. Belle French. From the library? Is now a good time to talk?" Gold smiled at the nervous tremor in her voice.

"Hello Belle," he said, a combination of relief and elation making the phone tremble in his hand. "It's good to hear from you. I'm so glad that you called."

"First, I wanted to thank you for a wonderful breakfast this morning."

"You're welcome. It was a rare pleasure to share the morning seated across from a beautiful woman." Emma edged closer, a broad smile on her face.

"And second, I wanted to clarify your invitation," Belle said. "You offered dinner, coffee, tea, and I think, lemonade?"

"So I did. Do any of those options appeal to you? If not, I also like lunch. Brunch? Fruit punch?"

Emma rolled her eyes at the bad pun, making him cringe, but Belle giggled. Gold brightened at once. Yes, he was acting like a complete fool, but he didn't care. Belle was laughing and he couldn't imagine a more beautiful sound in all the world.

There was a pause on the other end of the line and he sucked in a breath, waiting.

"How about dinner?" Belle asked.

"Yes," he said, desperate to clinch the date before she changed her mind. "How does Saturday evening sound? Italian? Seven o'clock?"

"That works. I'll meet you at Marco's Cucina," Belle said. And before he could offer to pick her up at home like a gentleman would, the line went dead.

Gold lowered the phone and stared at the black screen, his distorted image reflecting wonder and terror. He had a date. With Belle French.

Emma sat down next to him and pounded him on the back. "Way to go, Dad! You got her to go out with you. You're a total nerd, but judging from the sounds of the conversation, she seems to like that. Can I offer just one more, teeny bit of advice?"

"Would I be able to stop you?" Gold asked.

"Nope." Emma grinned.

Gold waved a hand at her. "Go ahead."

"Don't screw this up!"

###


	5. The First Date

Chapter Summary: Belle is nervous about the library interview. Belle and Gold have their first date.  
A/N: This is part 1 of their first date. I hope you find it adorably awkward and sweet!

 _You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly. – Sam Keen_

Belle was standing stark naked in her closet, searching for an interview outfit, when the call came.

It was no ordinary Thursday morning. Today was the day that Gold was coming to the library to interview her for the _Storybrooke Mirror._ She would sit opposite her crush of the past two years answering his questions and attempting to make intelligent conversation.

Once more she chastised herself for being nervous. For goodness sake, she held a doctorate in Library Science—she was more than equal to the challenge of discussing her life's work. However, her date with Gold in three days loomed like a specter, making her doubly confused about how to act. Should she be professional? Flirtatious? Acknowledge their plans or ignore them?

 _Be yourself, Belle. Be yourself and remember—this is an opportunity to tell the library's story._

The air was stale and sticky inside the overstuffed closet. Clothes in various sizes sagged haphazardly on hangers, and shelves bent under the weight of thick sweaters and shoes. Sweat pooled on her upper lip and the nape of her neck grew damp. Today was expected to be unseasonably warm and humid, more like summer than late autumn.

Following her shower, Belle had patted her soft terrycloth towel over every inch of her body, and then doused herself in baby powder to keep chafing at bay. Next she donned soft cotton panties, an industrial strength minimizing bra, and a pair of Spanx to suck in and smooth her belly, rear end, and thighs. She prayed that her ankles wouldn't swell until after the interview had ended.

Three identical pairs of black slacks mocked her from their respective hangers. Okay, not identical, exactly. Only one of those pairs fit—one was too big, the other too small. Belle rarely wore pants, anyway; the material clung to her too-round backside and plump thighs and reminded her of sausage meat stuffed inside a casing. Hanging beside the slacks were her usual shapeless sack dresses in several colors. Belle groaned, wishing she'd had the foresight to shop for the events this week. Why had she waited until the morning of the interview to select an outfit?

Not that a local shopping trip would have saved her, anyway. Belle couldn't wear the inexpensive pieces that celebrated the fashion trend du jour—the cheap fabrics and trendy styles didn't flatter her figure. During her last shopping expedition at the beginning of the summer, she'd dropped an armful of clothing on the floor of a boutique and sped away from the business district sobbing. Petite and plus size selections were few and far between in Storybrooke.

That was to say, there were none at all.

The idea of venturing outside of town to shop on her own was overwhelming, while buying online was a huge gamble. To compensate, she purchased the same baggy dresses over and over from the same tired store in every color of the rainbow, then had them altered for her petite height. They were free flowing and concealed her monstrous form. Comfortable, loose, and safe.

She was scrutinizing a hunter green top and a pair of tan slacks, wondering if the combination would make her look like an army tank, when her cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Belle, it's Gold."

 _Oh no._

"Hi." Belle's heart leaped to the worst possible conclusion and she plopped down on the closet floor to accept the bad news. Gold wouldn't be calling unless he planned to cancel their date.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes, fine. Thank you."

"Is it all right to call you at this number? I would have waited and phoned the library, but I had your telephone number in my mobile since we talked last night…"

Gold trailed off and Belle gesticulated at her phone impatiently, not that he could see. _Stop stalling._ _Go ahead and say it._

It was on the tip of her tongue to produce an excuse for him, to say she had somewhere else she had to be, that Saturday didn't suit her busy schedule of reading books, munching chocolate-covered pretzels, and watching reruns of _Design on a Dime_ after all. Instead, she dug her stubborn heels into the shag carpet and waited. _I'm not going to make this easy on him._

"At any rate, something's come up," he said, an apology in his voice.

"I figured as much," she said coolly.

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry, but I need to reschedule our interview."

"Pardon?" Belle swept the tip of her finger through her ear, certain she'd heard him wrong.

"Our interview regarding the library feature? You're probably so busy you've forgotten all about it." He chuckled and continued, "I'm headed to Boston on unexpected business. Leaving in about five minutes, but I'll see you on Saturday?"

The weight that had settled on Belle's shoulders lifted like a coastal fog. "Yes, Saturday," she said, the words coming out in a relieved jumble. "Have a safe trip, Gold."

"Thank you, Belle." There was a pause, and then his brogue thickened as he said softly, "I…I can't wait to see you."

"Yeah. Me too." Belle gulped, heat chasing up her cheeks. _Could he hear her smile through the phone?_

They hung up, and Belle hefted herself off the floor, her limbs trembling with relief. Shucking the Spanx, she padded out to the full-length mirror behind her locked bedroom door. Belle examined her reflection, sober blue eyes roving over her sagging stomach, fleshy arms, and jiggling thighs. At least the thick, supportive bra lifted and leveled her enormous breasts. The downside was the bra straps; they would dig into her shoulders and leave wide, red creases in her pale skin by nightfall.

 _How many pounds can I lose in three days?_

Turning away from the mirror, she stepped over a pile of interior design books and walked to the open window. Most of the house was decorated in the stiff, formal style that Edith favored, complete with artificial flowers in clear glass vases. Belle's shabby chic bedroom, decorated in a swath of buttery colors with blue accents was on the small side, but it was a haven in her father's tense household. When she wasn't reading books, she enjoyed shifting furniture around the space and considering paint colors. The room was also ideal for privacy: located in the back of the house, the space flooded with morning sun and faced a spacious backyard buttressed by a thick wall of pine trees.

Now that that interview was postponed and she no longer worried about arriving at the library in a sweaty mess, Belle turned her face to the sun and let it warm her. She reached for her hair to pull the clip out of the back, letting her curls cascade around her shoulders. She gnawed on her lip as she thought about Gold, giving serious consideration to whipping up one of Edith's juice cleanses. Those disgusting concoctions had to be good for at least two pounds a day—maybe more. She could lose six pounds in three days. Not nearly enough to make her svelte, but shaving off a little weight was better than nothing.

Belle donned her dressing robe and picked up a few knick-knacks that cluttered her dresser. Looking around, she resolved to buy the paint she had been meaning to get from the local hardware store for weeks. Change was in the air, and she loved reflecting her mood in the décor of her small bedroom. She had read every book the library owned regarding interior design and dreamed of the day she would decorate a house in bold blues and pale yellows, accented with antique farmhouse furniture and modern appliances.

Before she realized where her brain was headed, the image of furniture shopping with Gold popped into her mind. It would be _their_ home.

She wondered what décor styles Gold favored, then pushed the idea away. _Stop it, Belle. Get a grip._ She grinned to herself anyway, feeling silly and a little giddy. It was a pretty picture to paint with her mind's eye, and a little fantasy couldn't hurt.

In the meantime, she had a date to prepare for, and she needed all the help she could get.

She headed to the kitchen and poked around the cabinets, looking for the blender. From memory, she tossed Granny Smith apples, celery, cucumber, a peeled knob of ginger root, kale, and half of a lemon into the cylinder and gave it a whirl. The Mean Green was one of Edith's favorites—guaranteed to melt away the pounds—and she'd forced it on Belle many times during her growing up years.

Taking slow sips of the thick, green juice, Belle stepped to the sink and scrubbed out the blender. Then she wiped down the counters until they shone, getting rid of all the evidence of her new crash diet. Thank God her stepmother was at her daily spinning class. If she caught Belle drinking one of her favorite juice blends, she would demand to know why. Worse, if she found out Belle had a date, there would be no end to her "supportive" suggestions.

Belle drained her glass, then picked up the travel mug brimming with her liquid lunch. Her stomach lurched in protest, as though knowing that the green gunk was all the nutrients it was going to get for the next handful of days.

But it would be worth it to see Gold's eyes light up with appreciation. She was smitten, and she wanted him to find her attractive, to see the beauty concealed beneath rolls of flesh and shapeless sweaters.

* * *

Gold sat at a corner table at Marco's Cucina, craning his neck toward the front of the restaurant as he waited for Belle to arrive. He had chosen the table in the hopes that it would be secluded and romantic, and he couldn't wait to enjoy a meal with Belle without an audience.

For the third time in fifteen minutes, he snapped open his pocket watch to check the time. Then he smoothed his blue and red paisley tie, almost knocking the peony wrist corsage he'd brought as a gift for Belle to the floor. His eye snagged on his tie pin and he frowned as the small diamond in the center winked in the candlelight. _You look pretentious._ He yanked out the pin and shoved it in his pocket.

 _Relax, old man, it's not even seven o'clock._

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this anxious; perhaps when he was a fledgling reporter fresh out of journalism school and he was assigned to the _Globe's_ international bureau to cover the first war in Iraq. _Dating and war. Quite the comparison, Gold._

Once more he looked at his watch and sighed. _What if she doesn't come?_ He decided to check with the hostess station to see if the restaurant staff had mistakenly placed her at another table. When he stood up, she appeared, standing among the cluster of half-full tables with her hands clasped behind her back. Lightheaded, Gold grasped the back of his chair to steady his feet as she approached.

Never had Belle looked more beautiful, and Gold drank in the sight of her like a man at a desert oasis. A black maxi dress hugged her lush curves, and her auburn locks hung loose and shining down her back. Her bright blue eyes sparkled, reflecting the flickering candles that studded the dining area.

Gold picked up his cane and ordered his legs to move forward. "Belle, you are breathtaking this evening."

"So are you," she said, a shy smile spreading across her face. "I mean, uh, thank you."

Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, Gold led her back to the table, then pulled out her chair with a slight bow. "My lady."

Once Belle settled into her chair, he presented the corsage with a flourish. "I hope you like peonies?"

Speechless, Belle stared down at the flower tucked into a darling little blue box, then looked back at Gold.

"I trust this isn't too old-fashioned of me?" he asked, removing the corsage. He paused, his fingers hovering above her wrist. "May I?" Belle nodded with enthusiasm and he slid the arrangement into place, his touch making her pulse skitter.

"It's gorgeous," she said, admiring her decorated wrist in awe. _Did he know that peonies represented romance and romantic love?_ "The Chinese name for peony translates to 'most beautiful,'" she told him.

"How appropriate," he murmured, his appreciative gaze moving over her face. When their eyes met, he broke into a wide smile and a dimple appeared, creasing his left cheek. His eyes twinkled in the lowlight, and Belle nearly fell out of her chair.

Because she was bigger, a lot of people wouldn't even look her in the face, but Gold always looked at her eyes. It was one of the many reasons she liked him.

Growing self-conscious under the weight of his warm stare, she tugged at the wrap around her shoulders. Gold noticed, the way he seemed to notice everything, and half-rose. "May I take your shawl?"

Belle chewed her lip, hesitant. She had taken a chance, ordering this dress online and paying big bucks for two-day shipping. By some miracle it fit—even looked pretty if she focused on the section above her waist. The black shrug covered the most alluring part of her dress, the cutaway arms, and she almost agreed to remove the sweater. But she wasn't ready to let her flab hang out in front of Gold.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'm a little chilly."

"Ciao, Bella. You are cold?" Marco asked, approaching their table. He snapped his fingers at the maître de. "Turn up the heat for my special guests."

"Marco, I'm fine," she said, frustrated that she had called attention to herself.

Her friend tutted, then turned to Gold. "Welcome, Mr. Gold. I'm so glad you have chosen my restaurant for your first date with my Bella."

"The first of many, I hope," Gold said, and to Belle's surprise he reached across the table and squeezed her fingers. The affectionate gesture brought tears to her eyes and she blinked them away. She wasn't used to being touched, not by men other than Marco. But there was nothing paternal about the sensations that coursed through her when Gold held her hand.

Marco smoothed his beard, as he often did when he was pleased. "Si. I bring you special red wine—a Sangiovese—and my baked artichokes. On the house." He kissed his fingers. "You will love them."

Belle sent Marco a warning look. Enthusiasm over his excellent cuisine was fine, but if he mentioned that artichokes were an aphrodisiac, she was going to shave his beard with his favorite knife.

Her friend's smug smile told her he had a fairly good idea of the direction of her thoughts. Belle ignored him, pretending to study the menu.

"We're in your hands, Chef," Gold said, seeming unaware of the teasing Belle was enduring.

Their host wagged a finger. "I like you, Mr. Gold. I'll be right back."

Within moments, Marco returned with the wine, a basket of hot bread, and two giant, steamed artichokes served with a side of lemon aioli.

"You start with these," he announced. "What else may I bring you tonight? Bella?"

"A house salad, please," Belle said, closing her menu.

Marco looked at her expectantly, poised to scribble something more on the order pad.

"And?" Gold prompted.

"Just the salad." Belle hunched her shoulders, thinking about the three pounds she had lost after day one of the juice cleanse. That first evening, she had been so hungry that she went to Granny's and huddled in the back booth, scarfing a double order of nachos smothered in pulled pork and barbecue sauce.

"You're certain?" Gold asked, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Yes."

"Marco, would you excuse us for a moment, please?" Gold asked quietly.

"Of course, Mr. Gold," he said. Marco snapped the order pad closed and stepped away, but not before Belle saw the concerned look on his face.

Heat suffused Belle's cheeks as she watched Marco head back to the kitchen. When she turned back to Gold, his face was a cement wall. He had the most stony, unreadable expression when he chose, and he'd just gone into full conceal mode.

Belle's knees began to knock together. Would he shout at her? Sean had always directed her to order salads without dressing on the rare occasions that they went out to eat. Oh, how she longed to do the right thing, to be the kind of woman who people could see with a man like Gold! Somehow, though, she was always saying and doing stupid things, constantly reminding others that no matter where she went or who she was with, Belle French didn't quite fit in.

Gold leaned over the table, capturing her hand in his once more. The soothing warmth of his palm pulled her out of her budding panic. "Sweetheart, you need to eat."

"I do eat," she said, the endearment chasing all the fight from her words. "I'm not hungry today."

"You say that a lot," he said. "I myself am quite hungry, but I'm not going to force you to eat if you don't want to. You and Marco are good friends, right?"

"The best." She nodded, grateful to have one correct answer.

Gold flashed her a charming smile. His teeth were white but slightly crooked, and she caught a glimpse of one gold crown, a feature she'd never noticed in all her months of admiring him from a distance. The small imperfection loosened the tightness in her gut, causing her to relax a bit about her own appearance. In every way he dazzled her, and when he was around she often felt as though she were trying to look directly at the sun—he was powerful, beautiful, and unattainable.

"Since you know him well, perhaps you could help me order?" Gold asked, breaking her out of her reverie. "Recommend a few of the best dishes? The chicken saltimbocca sounds delicious."

Belle brightened a bit. Something about this man coaxed her to relax in a way that she couldn't in front of other people. "Saltimbocca is Italian for 'jump in the mouth'."

"That sounds wonderful," he said.

He bent over the artichoke, a quizzical expression on his handsome face. Belle showed him how to remove the leaves, dip them in the aioli, then scrape the flesh off with his teeth. It was a sensual experience, eating an artichoke, and Belle felt a flutter in her abdomen as she watched Gold enjoy the vegetable. She even acquired the courage to nibble a few leaves herself.

"Excellent," he praised. "What else should we have?"

Belle recited her favorite dishes: the bruschetta with goat cheese, the insalata di manzo if he wanted something on the light side, or the spaghetti gambini if he was in the mood for seafood. To her pleasure, Gold ordered everything she suggested and even reminded Marco to bring the side salad she had requested.

After ordering, Gold poured her a glass of the tangy Sangiovese and offered a toast.

"To us," he said, simply, with a wide smile and warm eyes. Belle brought her glass to his, and the rims chimed in harmony.

"Yes," she agreed, hoping that the huge grin on her face wasn't too ridiculous. "To us."

As they waited for dinner to arrive, Belle peppered him with questions. "Tell me about your work. Did you always want to be a writer? And why on earth would you leave a city like Boston to move to Storybrooke?"

"Hang on a moment. I'm the reporter, so I get to ask the questions," he joked.

The color on his cheeks had heightened a bit, and it thrilled Belle to imagine that she could fluster a man as cool and sophisticated as Gold. "How does it feel, having the tables turned?" she asked, smiling.

"With you? Nice." Gold told her about raising Neal, about his travels with the newspaper, and the guilt he felt as a single parent in a high-demand profession. After a while he stopped, realizing that he'd been rambling.

When he looked at her, she was biting her full, delicate bottom lip as she listened to him, her blue eyes darkened. His pulse picked up again as he looked at her lips. Meeting her gaze, he knew she'd caught him staring at her mouth.

"Why did you ask me out?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and studying him.

Gold cleared his throat. Emma had urged him to be forthright about reading Belle's journal, to begin their relationship from an honest place. He hated to admit it, but his daughter-in-law was right. Again.

He took a deep breath and said, "I have a confession to make. I almost didn't. That is to say, I was nervous. I never thought I had a chance with you…didn't dare to hope. And then I saw your notebook."

Belle stared at him in silence, her face a mask, and he winced.

"What are you thinking?" he asked nervously.

"You read it." The reply was matter-of-fact.

"Only the page it fell open to," he rushed to assure her. "And I'm glad I did."

Her gaze was cutting. "Glad? Really? My utter mortification makes you happy?"

He could tell she was hurt by the tone of her voice, the abruptness of her words.

"Yes. Because I realized you might like me, too." _That I could take a chance,_ he wanted to add _. That I was allowed to fall in love._

"Oh? What page did you see?"

"It was, ah, the one with your name. Well, I suppose I should say, our names," he finished weakly, attempting a smile.

"I'm so embarrassed." Her face flamed as she recalled the contents of the page in question. She buried her face in her hands, picturing the page exactly as he had seen it. Over and over in a flowery, romantic font, she had written her name entwined with Gold's:

 _Belle Gold_  
 _Mrs. Belle A. Gold_  
 _Belle French Gold_  
 _Mr. and Mrs. Gold_

It was a childish thing to have done, and she shook her head at herself. The students she taught at the school library each week were more mature than she. Still, it was her journal where she wrote her most secret thoughts, and she had a right to privacy.

"Don't be embarrassed," he begged. "Please. I've never been so flattered in my entire life."

"Really?" Belle was amazed. "I suppose I did drop it in front of you. Who wouldn't be curious?"

"That's no excuse," he said baldly. "It will never happen again, I swear."

"All right," Belle said. "We won't discuss it anymore."

"Ok. But…have you…have you really thought about us, that way?"

"I don't know," she said, feigning a special interest in a piece of lint on her napkin. "Maybe I've considered changing my name from a language to a color?"

Gold threw back his head and laughed. "Fair enough."

Marco arrived with more hot platters of food and two smaller plates, and Belle was grateful to put an end to that conversation.

Without comment, Gold began to serve Belle bits and tastes of the different dishes, and before she knew it, she had eaten several bites of food.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Gold asked, looking over her half-empty plate with pleasure.

"I am. Thank you." Belle took another bite of pasta and a sip of wine, feeling more relaxed that she had in a long while.

A shadow loomed over the table, and Belle turned to smile at Marco. "We don't need anything, thank you Ma…" Belle trailed off, squinting up at their guest.

It wasn't Marco standing beside the table. It was her ex-fiancé, Sean.

"Why, if it isn't Big Belly," Sean said. "Fancy meeting you here."

###

 _Part 2 of their first date is up next chapter._


	6. Listen to Your Heart

Summary: While still on his date with Belle, Gold has some choice words for Sean. Later, Belle takes a stand of her own.

A/N: Huge shout out to all the wonderful readers who have discovered this story and are leaving reviews and encouragement week after week. Your words of kindness and the experiences you have shared inspire me! THANK YOU. This chapter, I hope, is filled with many things you have been waiting for.

 _Is "fat" really the worst thing a human being can be? Is "fat" worse than "vindictive," "jealous," "shallow," "vain," "boring," "evil," or "cruel"? Not to me. – JK Rowling_

"Why, if it isn't Big Belle-y," Sean said. "Fancy meeting you here."

Belle snapped her eyes away, focusing on the smooth slope of Gold's shoulders. _Goodness, that man could wear a suit!_

Perhaps if she pretended she hadn't seen Sean, he would scamper off and do the same.

"Belle-y?" he repeated.

No such luck.

"Sean," Belle greeted at last, her tone lackluster.

She flinched at the casual use of her old nickname-Big Belley-earned almost fifteen years ago in Mrs. Wass's fourth grade class after she'd belly-flopped into the pool during swim class. Sean seemed to think it was a great joke, and he'd enjoyed teasing her with it since they'd been children. Normally she didn't mind—it was true. She _was_ big.

Belle could feel the warm creep of shame spreading from her neck to her cheeks, her earlobes burning with embarrassment. It was one thing to be teased in private—or even on the school playground—but it was quite another to be reduced and marginalized to "just the fat girl" in front of a would-be suitor.

 _Please_ , she begged in silence, _not in front of Gold._

Sean scanned their half-empty plates, and his eyes seemed to zero in on the fork in Belle's hand. He shoved his hands into his denim pockets and grinned.

She carefully laid down the fork and dropped both hands into her lap, fisting the starched white napkin and staring at Gold's tie.

"It's been a while, Belle. How've you been?" Sean asked, not quite masking his nosy curiosity with fake concern.

A churning sensation began in her gut, and Belle's eyes flew up to Gold's face, desperate to gauge his reaction. Would he think there was still something between them?

Gold's caramel eyes were inscrutable, revealing nothing as he looked first at Belle and then at Sean.

All Belle wanted was for Sean to disappear, but she couldn't find the words to make him leave. Something about Sean Herman always made her freeze in panic. Through the years, she'd learned to swallow insults like stale cookies—dry and chalky, but when she was hungry for attention, better than nothing. Somehow, though, when Sean started in on her, her tongue tied itself to her vocal cords and her insides twisted up. It was the reason, she realized, that she had stayed with him so long. She was a weak-willed woman, and staying silent was so much easier than standing up.

"Herman." Gold's voice was clipped. "Why are you here?"

"Take it easy, Gramps. I'm meeting some buddies for dinner and I spotted my friend Belle. Thought I'd come by and say hello."

"And now you've said it," Gold replied in a growl.

Sean blinked back at Gold, the picture of innocence, and Belle slumped in her chair. She spied a crack in the corner of the worn hardwood floor. Perhaps if she wished hard enough, it would open and Sean would fall in.

"What's the deal, Belle? Are you and Gold here having a business dinner? Interview?" Sean pressed.

"Not quite," Belle said, hesitant to reveal too much.

"Oh wow. You aren't…here on a date?" he asked. Sean looked her up and down, assessing the generous curves that were such a stark contrast to the willowy grace of other women in town, then turned to Gold with a chuckle. "It's ok, pal, I get it. A man could live on that for a while, couldn't he?"

"Bella, Mr. Gold." Out of nowhere, Marco rushed to the table and elbowed Sean aside. Belle could tell her friend had been hovering and had overheard the exchange. "There is something you need?"

"We'll take the check, Marco." Belle's face flamed. Judging from the downward spiral this date was now circling, Gold was certain to want to leave, and she was frantic to save him further awkwardness. How dare Sean insinuate that Gold was old?

 _This is why you can't have nice things, Belle. He's never going to want to see you again after you've subjected him to public humiliation._

"No, we won't," Gold said, dismissing the bill when Marco produced it.

Sean looked on, a curious expression on his face, as if he had no idea that he was the one causing a scene. And at once Belle realized: he didn't know. You couldn't speak sense to someone who didn't understand he was a problem, and Sean Herman was the least self-aware person she'd ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Gold turned to face her, his face etched with worry. "Belle, sweetheart, do you want to leave? I thought we were having a good time, but we'll do whatever you want. All I care about is your happiness."

Belle's eyes burned with tears. Gold's sensitivity appeared to know no bounds. "I don't want to go," she answered honestly, not daring to look at Sean. She kept her eyes on Gold; looking at him centered her, gave her a modicum a strength to keep from bolting for the door.

"Good. That's settled. Marco, could you bring us the dessert menu?" Gold asked, winking at her.

Belle flooded with relief and they shared a smile, but their uninvited guest still stood next to the table. "Belle doesn't eat dessert," Sean interrupted.

"I bring the tray." Marco shuffled away, muttering about baking Ex-Lax into a tray of lasagna—Sean's favorite dish, Belle knew.

* * *

Gold's heart clenched in his chest as Belle blanched, her beautiful mouth becoming pinched and strained when Herman made a crack about her eating dessert. _That did it._ His temper spiked and he gripped the arms of the dining chair. Out of respect for Belle he had remained silent as long as possible, but this bastard had crossed the line.

"Herman." Gold rose slowly, giving his cane a meaningful squeeze. "Did you miss your cue to leave?"

Eyes bulging, the younger man took a half-step backward, almost colliding with a waiter passing behind him.

"Allow me to clarify matters for you." Gold bared his teeth in warning and closed the distance between them until his polished shoes were mashed up against Sean's sneakers. "Miss French and I are on a date. You've already blown your chance, whelp. You were engaged to her and failed to convince her to marry you. Are you here to make this lovely lady change her mind?"

Sean stepped back again, swinging his head back and forth in a denial.

"No? Good. As you so sagely pointed out, I'm an old man. You may have eons to screw everything on two legs, but for me, every breath is a cliffhanger," he said. "I'm beyond blessed that Miss French has agreed to accompany me to dinner this evening, and I'm not wasting another moment of my time with her on you. So unless you want to meet the curved end of my cane, get the hell out of here."

"Are you threatening me, Gramps?" Sean's eyes flashed in anger.

"Oh no, I was merely assessing the situation." Gold barked a laugh designed to send chills up a foe's spine. He lifted his cane slightly, and polished a smudge off the brass handle, glaring at Sean with a dark smirk of confidence. He might be shorter than Belle's ex, but what he lacked in brute strength, he more than compensated for with experience and naked rage.

"Now I'm threatening you: don't ever come near Belle French again. Don't call her, don't speak to her, don't cross the street to greet her. I won't eviscerate you here because I like Marco and bloodstains are so tricky to remove from banquette cushions." Gold paused to let the mental image sink in, smiling when the blood drained out of Sean's face. "But if I find out you've so much as darkened the library door, you'll beg me to turn you over to the police. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Sean gulped.

Gold watched his Adam's Apple bob in satisfaction, relishing the scent of fear. "Now apologize to the lady."

"I'm sorry, Belle," Sean bit out through clenched teeth. He backed away and disappeared, moving toward the back corner of the dining room.

Gold was breathing hard, trembling in anger. Belle still looked stricken, and he smiled at her as he crouched down next to her chair. _To hell with the pain in his knee._ He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

"I am now," she said, her eyes shining down at him, twin beacons filled with hope. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, bringing light and joy back into her face. In his years as a reporter, Gold had carried children out of war zones and delivered humanitarian aid to people suffering from disaster, but never in Gold's life had he felt like more of a hero than he did at that moment.

* * *

Belle was quiet as Gold took her home in his old black Cadillac, and a soft, acoustic rendition of Roxette's _Listen to Your Heart_ played on the radio, chiding her with its know-thyself message.

They had finished their dinner date without incident, but Sean's interruption had dimmed the spark of hope in her heart. She knew what would happen next, the polite thank-you-for-a-nice-evening-but-no-second-date rejection that would come once they reached her driveway. Why would someone as magnificent and attractive as Gold want someone with so much baggage?

Worry coiled in her belly like a snake poised to strike. Marco had agreed to return her car to her by morning since she'd driven herself to the restaurant. Her kneejerk reaction was to be practical and insist on getting home on her own, but she was reluctant to allow the evening to end, even if she was doing nothing more than prolonging the inevitable.

Belle reclined against the passenger seat, trying to relax. Clinging to the remnants of her composure, she mulled over the pleasant parts of the evening. She erased Sean from her mind and concentrated on Gold—his voice, his smile, his touch—and chanced glances at his handsome profile as he drove, his strong tanned fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

It seemed chivalry wasn't dead after all. Gold had knelt beside her at the table and kissed her hand, calming her after Sean slunk back into the shadows. She closed her eyes to savor the memory; that simple gesture had sent glory bumps dancing through her body. Then Gold had looked up at her from his kneeling position, all calm and concerned and so gorgeous. For one fleeting, indescribable moment, their eyes had locked, and no words were necessary. He was worried for her, and she was thankful for him. It was the most intimate encounter of Belle's life, and a mixture of fear and excitement overcame her—she had lost her heart to this incredible man.

They had ended their evening by picking at a shared slice of lemon ricotta cheesecake and sipping espresso. Gold had kept her chatting about ideas for Henry's personal library, and she had offered ideas and suggestions for books and décor. It struck her that he always kept the conversation focused on her or others he cared for, never on himself. Belle stored that information away to consider later, when she could give it the time and attention it deserved.

What amazed Belle most was that Gold remained completely at ease throughout the evening, even after the incident with Sean. She felt a brief pang of envy. _How wonderful it must be to be so self-assured._ One day perhaps she could hope to be half as cool and collected when faced with trying circumstances.

"Is this the house?" Gold asked softly, snapping Belle from her thoughts. He had brought her home, and Belle unbuckled her seat belt. Gold moved to do the same, but she placed her hand on his, motioning for him to stop.

"You don't have to get out of the car," she said. "Thank you for a lovely time tonight. Dinner was fabulous." Belle said no more, unwilling to put him on the spot where he would be forced either ask her out or let her down. She smiled at him, a sad smile that turned genuine when his brow furrowed in adorable confusion. _He is incredibly handsome_ , she thought, for the umpteen millionth time that night.

Belle looked down and realized that Gold was holding her hand. Her mouth went dry as she felt the warmth of his touch, their fingers intertwined, and his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"I'm sorry," she said, "about Sean."

"Belle, I…" he began, glancing down at their joined hands. "You have nothing to apologize for. I want you to know…nobody should ever speak to you the way Herman did tonight." His steady gaze returned to her face, amber-flecked eyes holding her captive. Given a choice, she would have happily drowned in those bottomless caramel pools.

"I never would…I never will," he chanted, and his free hand moved to caress her cheek. Belle leaned into his gentle touch, eyes widening further as he drew closer and the spicy scent of his cologne teased her nostrils.

"Beautiful Belle," he whispered, the words a breath against her lips. She opened her mouth to refute him, when suddenly his lips pressed into hers, warm and firm. He tasted of lemony sweetness from the dessert they had shared, and her eyes fluttered shut as she let herself fall into the kiss. She lifted her hands to his chest, and the feel of his heartbeat thundering beneath her palm made her toes curl inside her shoes. The tiny spark she had nourished in her heart roared to life once more, spreading through her belly like a wildfire.

He broke the kiss, and Belle's eyes drifted open as if waking from a delicious dream. Gold pulled away with a small smile, but those whisky eyes continued to burn.

"Good night, Belle."

"Good night," she managed, breathless.

"You're sure I can't escort you to the door?"

"I'm fine," she said with a smile.

Somehow, Belle opened the car door and walked on wobbly legs up the sidewalk to the front porch. Fumbling for her key in the dark with shaking hands, Belle allowed herself a moment of private delight before grasping the doorknob and stepping back into reality.

* * *

When Belle opened the door, Edith was in the living room watching television, eyes glued to the latest ridiculous infomercial for the latest and greatest overpriced juicer. Belle had to walk past her to access the staircase, but her heart was so light that even her stepmother's sour disposition couldn't bring her down.

"Where have you been, Belle?" Edith asked, right on cue. Her dark eyes grew as big as the moon in her tiny face as she took in Belle's evening attire. "Is that a new dress?"

"Yep."

Edith tilted her head, no doubt waiting for Belle to say more. It was one of her favorite games—to make the silence so uncomfortable that Belle was compelled to fill the space with nervous chatter. Tonight she wasn't falling for it.

Giving up, Edith motioned toward Belle's father, snoring in the recliner, and tried the guilt trip approach instead. "It's late, dear. We missed you at dinner tonight."

"I had a date," Belle announced, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Edith's mouth dropped open in shock, and Belle sailed through the living room and up the stairs to her room with her nose in the air. _Smoke on that, Edith._

Belle climbed the staircase with a confident stride she didn't know she possessed, imagining Edith's mouth still agape from her revelation. No doubt she would needle her in the morning, vying to know the identity of her suitor, but Belle didn't care. She wasn't going to give in this time. No, what she had shared with Gold tonight was too precious to allow Edith to poison it.

 _What's come over you, Belle French?_

Closing and locking the door to her bedroom, she switched on the replica antique Tiffany lamp beside her bed, bathing the space in a soft, romantic light. Still wearing her dress, she padded to the full length mirror on the other side of the room and studied her reflection, trying to see herself through Gold's eyes. Did he not find her plump calves revolting? Was he not repulsed by her round hips and backside? Were her mountainous breasts not obscene to him? And what about the fact that she was bigger than he was? He was small and lithe and she was large and broad. But he was taller, Belle reminded herself, and in his presence she somehow felt diminutive and protected.

 _Beautiful Belle._ That's what he had said, and her soul bubbled over with joy at the words, even as she questioned their truth.

Belle gave the girl in the mirror a tremulous smile, feeling pretty for the first time since her mother had died. Mama had always told her that she was beautiful, even as a chubby little girl. If Gold looked at her and also saw beauty, perhaps she could learn to see it, too.

Later, when she slipped out of her dress and climbed into bed, doubt crawled in too. Gold had called her beautiful and kissed her good night, but he hadn't said anything about wanting to see her again, had he? _Stop it_ , she ordered her overworked brain. _Savor the moment._

Belle rolled over and pulled her journal from its hiding place between the mattress and box spring. Pressing her left hand to her lips where the delicious warmth of Gold's kiss lingered, she scribbled down every wondrous detail she could recall—the wine, the food, the pink peony corsage that still adorned her wrist. After that kiss, even their run-in with Sean couldn't taint her happiness. If she never spent another evening as magical as this one, she wanted to capture it now and for always.

Tucking the journal away, Belle removed her corsage and placed it on the nightstand. In the morning, she would press the bloom as a keepsake of their first date. _What makes you think there will be a second date, Belle?_ Ignoring the nasty voice in her head, she snuggled under the blankets and closed her eyes. As she lay there, she traced her lips with a finger once more, allowing the memory of Gold's tender kiss to lull her to sleep.

* * *

Gold bolted up in bed, cursing himself. _How had he forgotten to ask Belle when he could see her again?_ What sort of idiot wined and dined a woman, kissed her goodnight, and then failed to request another date?

With a moan, he raked his fingers through his hair and snapped up his mobile phone, glaring at the screen. No, it was far too late at night to call or text now. She'd think he was rude _and_ insane.

In truth, he'd been too overcome by their kiss to form a thought. For more than two years he had waited, biding his time as he burned with jealousy toward that bastard Herman. Gold felt a stab of guilt, knowing that he'd prayed for the relationship to fall apart so he could woo Belle for his own. Tonight, at last, she'd been in his arms, and his heart slammed against his ribcage when she welcomed his kiss with a tiny moan.

Grinning like an utter fool, he'd watched her walk gracefully to her door, her hips swaying in an unconscious seduction, and disappear inside. Belle had the most perfect, glorious breasts Gold had ever seen, and it had required a Herculean effort not to ogle her chest all night long. The greatest part of her appeal? She had no idea how gorgeous she was. And it wasn't only her body, but her incredible mind that made his pulse pound. She was beautiful and witty, funny and sweet. No one shone brighter than Belle French.

His body stirred in remembrance and he growled with pride, recalling the breathless swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of her dress, her lips ruby red and swollen from his kiss, her eyes dark with desire. Desire for him. He had pleased her, and he ached to do it again.

 _Tomorrow_ , he promised himself, falling back against the pillows. He would fix everything tomorrow.

###

Did Gold do good, guys? What about my girl Belle sassing Edith?!


	7. A Turquoise Ache

Summary: Belle receives a special gift from Gold. Meanwhile, Gold goes fishing with Neal and Henry and his son offers some important advice. Emma and Belle also have a chat.

A/N: Dedicated to JosephineM aka RobertMarch82 on Tumblr. You are so precious to us. *HUGS*

 _Surely, there is beauty in the caterpillar no matter whether she eventually becomes a butterfly. – Ashley Clark_

 _Belle tugged on the hem of her navy shorts and wiped damp palms on her white t-shirt. Gym class was the low point of her day. Envy ballooned in her chest as she looked at the other girls—thin and cute in the standard school gym uniform. She looked around wistfully—thirty other pairs of toned legs and taut tummies in the room—all but one. More than feeling simple jealousy, Belle wished mostly for the same ease of stride, the effortless ability to find comfort in her surroundings. Other girls didn't chafe when running, their shorts didn't hike up, and their shirts didn't stick to their bodies like a second skin. She, on the other hand, looked like a powdered sugar doughnut half-dipped in blueberry sauce._

 _She wondered what humiliation she would have to endure today in the name of physical fitness. Would they be choosing teams to exacerbate whatever physical torture was coming their way? Belle sighed. Picking teams was another level of hell. Basketball, volleyball, kickball, even badminton; no matter the activity, she was always picked last. That was the worst; waiting for the humiliation, feeling the judgmental eyes of everyone in the room, the silent signaling-out of the fat girl._

" _Line up, fourth graders! Time to weigh in," yelled Mrs. Tholman._

 _Towering above them at 6' with a thick, muscular build and a fat, blonde braid, the students had dubbed her LumberJane behind her back. Belle hated the name-calling and refused to participate; it wasn't Mrs. Tholman's fault that she was tall and strong._

 _The teacher mashed a button on the wall with her thumb, activating the curtain that divided the gym in half to closet the boys on the opposite side. The boys watched, whooping and hollering as they disappeared from view and Belle rolled her eyes at their absurd behavior. Then she noticed a janitor wheel an oversize scale into the center of the hardwood floor, stopping on the free-throw line._

 _In horror, Belle listened as Ms. Tholman began to shout names. One by one, like sheep led to the slaughter, each girl came forward take her turn on the scale. And as each girl was weighed, Ms. Tholman called out her name and her weight while her assistant scribbled the numbers down. "Ashley Boyd, 86 pounds! Ana Pedersen, 91 pounds! Emma Swan, 81 pounds!"_

" _Belle French!"_

 _Belle staggered forward, and sucked in a breath as she stepped onto the scale. With her eyes, she begged Mrs. Tholman to whisper the number to her assistant._

" _Belle French! 112 pounds!" the teacher yelled._

 _One hundred and twelve pounds? Belle jerked back as though she'd been slapped. Surely she had heard wrong. No one else had come close to that. She was at least twenty pounds heavier than any other eleven-year-old in the room._

 _The other girls were clustered together, snickering and whispering, as the final names and weights were called. A sick feeling churned in her gut. Somehow she was absolutely certain that every giggle and murmur was directed at her. Overcome, she turned and fled for the locker room._

* * *

"Belle? Belle?"

"Present!" Belle jerked awake, catching her chin with her palm to stop her head from slamming down on her office desk. She rubbed her eyes in confusion, coming away with with flakes of black mascara, and Cordelia swam into view.

"Oh, Cordelia, hi. Do…do you need help out front?"

The container of chicken salad she'd brought for lunch lay open in the center of her desk. She pushed the orange Tupperware box into the corner. The impromptu nap and dream had murdered her appetite.

"Were you out late last night, dear?" Cordelia asked.

"A little," Belle muttered sleepily.

After her date with Gold she had tossed and turned in bed for hours, her thoughts filled with her handsome, charming companion. _And his kiss_. Most especially his kiss. She would not do that again, she decided. No, kissing him had been a mistake. Best not to let herself fall further, and denying such pleasures of the flesh was the first step. Her heart began to race and her ponytail felt sticky and heavy; probably the beginnings of an anxiety attack brought on by last night's rich dinner. "Now, did you need something?"

"This was messengered over from _The Storybrooke Mirror_." Cordelia's smile was sly as she held out a flat, narrow box tied with a ribbon. "It's from _him."_

Belle was certain a flock of fowl had taken up residence in her chest. She blinked heavily and stared at the box, her mind cloudy from lack of sleep and running a nonstop reel about _him_.

"Well, aren't you going to take it?" the assistant librarian prompted.

Belle reached for the box, picturing feathers flying as she accepted it. It was heavier than it looked, a solid but satisfactory weight in her hand. She cleared her mind and slowed her breathing as she pulled the package closer. It was wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper, and a ribbon of sea blue raffia held the packaging in place. It was beautiful in its simplicity and she smiled slightly as she untied the ribbon, removed the lid, and opened it.

"Oh…" she breathed.

A stunning sheet of sea glass was nestled on a soft bed of cotton, and Belle slid her fingers beneath the rock. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, and as she ran her thumbs along its smooth surface she imagined Gold laying the gift inside the box, humming an off-key tune as he tied the ribbon.

She lifted the sea glass up, and a sterling chain attached to the top dangled with smaller stones in the same shade of pale blue.

"It's a bookmark," she exclaimed softly, the flock in her chest beating wildly and descending into her belly. "And there's an inscription."

"Read it!" Cordelia squealed.

Belle cleared her throat and read the words:

"I wish to stay drenched forever in those rain-blue eyes,  
in those soul-reaching crystals.  
Not moving a muscle nor breathing,  
just savoring this turquoise ache  
against my heart."

She raised stunned eyes to Cordelia, undone by the beautiful words adorning the unexpected gift. Feeling the heat rise in her face at the knowledge that she had been found out, she lowered her gaze back to the bookmark.

But Cordelia didn't seem to notice.

"Oh my." The older woman sighed dramatically, collapsing in the chair across from Belle's desk, a plump hand splayed over her heart. "That's heavenly, dear. Are you going out again?"

"I haven't decided yet," Belle said, still staring at the sea glass.

"What?" Cordelia's voice was shrill. "Hasn't he asked?"

"He has. He called this morning while I was in the shower. I haven't had a chance to call him back."

Cordelia swatted her with a rolled up copy of _The Storybrooke Mirror._ "You're stalling."

Belle scanned a stack of files on her desk, willing the conversation to come to an end.

"I've been busy," she said defensively.

"Too busy for a two-minute conversation with that gorgeous man?" Cordelia lowered her voice and looked at Belle, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Did he kiss you?"

"Cordelia…" Belle swallowed and picked up the piece of sea glass once more, focused on the words etched in the glass.

"Oh, please tell me," Cordelia begged. "A little harmless fun for an old widow."

"Yes, he did." Belle blushed furiously, still looking at the beautiful blue-green rock.

"Call him," Cordelia jabbed a finger at the phone. "Call him this instant."

"Ok, ok." Belle nested her bookmark back in the box and moved to pick up the receiver. It rang, right on cue, and she lurched back from the phone like it was a snake. Caller ID announced that the call was coming from _The Storybrooke Mirror_. Belle inhaled sharply. _It must be Gold._ She picked up the phone and made a split-second decision.

"Hey," she said breathily, attempting a sexy, sultry tone.

Cordelia's eyebrows shot into her hairline and she leaned forward, nearly dipping her sleeve into Belle's discarded chicken salad lunch.

"Um, hi…is this Belle?" a female voice asked.

 _Oh, good Lord._

"Yes, it's Belle," she said, swiveling her chair towards the back wall of the office.

"It's Emma Cassidy."

"Mrs. Cassidy. Hello. Um, how are you?" Guilt punched her in the gut. Marco had urged her to think about calling Emma, to strike up a friendship, and she had promised to give it some thought. But she'd dismissed it entirely. What did she and Emma have in common, anyway?

"Mrs. Cassidy?" Emma trilled a laugh. "Henry drools on your shirt, Belle," she said wryly. "I'd say we're on a first name basis."

Waving Cordelia away, Belle turned her chair to look out the window, trying to focus on the conversation. Cordelia scuttled out the door, closing it behind her. Belle's gaze returned to the window. Rounding the corner on the south side of the library, as if she'd willed him into appearing, was Gold. He was walking with Neal and Henry, the three of them carrying tackle boxes and fishing rods. Their bright faces were wreathed in smiles, and Belle's heart tugged in her chest as Gold ruffle Henry's hair and Neal threw his head back in laughter.

He was actually going fishing in a three-piece suit. Only Gold could pull that off. Belle chewed her lower lip, eyeing the elegant swell of his retreating backside.

"Belle…Belle? Can you hear me? Did I lose you?" Emma's concerned tone shook Belle from her reverie.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Emma," Belle said, snapping back to reality and scrambling for an excuse. _Focus, Belle. What has gotten into you?_ "I, um, had a patron who needed some help."

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I call back later?" Emma asked.

"No, no. Now is fine. How may I help you, Emma?" Belle forced herself to sound as normal as possible.

"Gold asked me to call," Emma explained. "To confirm our appointment on Thursday? He'd like me to take some pictures of you to accompany the library feature. I've left a couple of messages but I haven't heard back from you."

Belle leaned back in the desk chair and looked at the ceiling.

"Belle?"

"Um, yes, I'm here. What…what is the appointment for? I don't recall—"

"Your photo for the article."

"Oh, right." Belle pretended to flip through her calendar _. The photo session is for the library, not the librarian!_ "You know, that date isn't great. I may need to reschedule."

"I've caught you at a bad time," Emma said. "Do you want to call me tomorrow?"

"No, it's okay," Belle protested feebly, craning her neck for another glimpse of Gold sauntering down the road with a fishing rod. "I don't know where my brain is today."

The idea of him dropping newspaper business in the middle of the day to go fishing with Neal and Henry was yet another ridiculous turn-on. Was the man bloody perfect?

 _Careful. If he seems too good to be true, he probably is._

"How about an afternoon pick-me-up?" Emma offered. "Why don't we meet for coffee? Or tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Is suggesting multiple beverages a family trait?" Belle couldn't resist a giggle.

Emma joined in the joke. "No, but trying to fill uncomfortable silences is. Are you free later today? Say around 4 o'clock?"

"Sure, that sounds fine," Belle said. "See you then."

* * *

Gold dug into the tackle box, emerging with a fat, brown worm. He took Henry's fishing rod and shoved the worm onto the hook.

"Gross," the boy said cheerfully.

Gold barked a laugh and patted the boy's head. The three sat on the dock dangling their feet in the water, Henry sandwiched between he and Neal.

That was about the extent of his skill, baiting the hook, but he'd been taking Neal fishing ever since he was a boy. On weekends when they lived in Boston, he'd drive out to Cape Cod and they would while away hours on an outcrop of rocks, fishing poles in hand. Sometimes they talked, and others they sat in comfortable silence. It had been their special time together away from his work, and now a pastime they shared with Henry.

Gold never caught anything, to his amused irritation. Perhaps it was because he hated sitting still. That was it—he made the fish nervous. He wiggled his toes in the water, casting longing looks at his silk socks and shiny loafers sitting a few feet away. _Relax, old man. It's family time._ He was passing on a tradition to his grandson.

"Papa?" Neal plopped another glistening fish into the cooler, and cast his line once more. "How are things with Belle?"

"Better than they are with these fish," Gold grumbled and sighed, slumping as he waited for the cork to bob _. Just once? Please, don't embarrass an old man in front of his grandson,_ he prayed.

"Grandpa, do you have the drearie-wearies?" Henry asked.

Gold wiped the frown off his face. Henry's concern was evidence that he was taking this fishing expedition too seriously. "What, pray tell, are the drearie-wearies?"

"Miss Belle read _The Pout-Pout Fish_ the other day," Henry said.

"Is that so?" Gold smiled. He loved how Henry's brain worked.

"Uh huh." The child's nod was far more mature than his five years. "Anyway, the pout-pout fish was super sad and he would swim around and spread the drearie-wearies all over the place. But then he found another fish that looked like him and you know what? She kissed him. And that's how he became a kiss-kiss fish. You could kiss Miss Belle and become a kiss-kiss fish and get rid of the drearie-wearies."

"A fine idea, Henry," Gold said, reaching out to squeeze his little shoulders.

"You really like Belle, don't you, Pop?" Neal grinned at him over Henry's head.

"Very much." He hesitated, wanting to voice his thoughts but not wanting to wound his family. For years they had been his everything and he'd pursued no relationships outside their tiny clan. "You know how I feel about you and Emma and Henry, right?"

"Of course." Neal met his father's worried eyes and together they glanced at Henry. "Son," Neal said, "why don't you take your toys and go play in sand for a little while?"

Henry picked up his pail and shovel, walked about six feet down the beach, and sat down to play.

"Yes," Neal encouraged, smiling at the boy. "Right there where Grandpa and I can still see you."

Gold squirmed on the dock. A root canal was preferable to baring his soul, but he had to confess to someone. "I can see a future with Belle, and that…I'm scared. I spent the last twenty-five years trying to devote myself to you. To being your father. The rest of the time I spent surrounded by millions of strangers. Now I want a relationship, I want love."

"Why shouldn't you? Want those things?" Neal reeled in another fish and tossed it in the ice bath.

"Belle is so different from…" Gold paused and gave Neal a guilt-ridden glance. They never discussed her.

"It's ok, Pop. My mother?"

"Yes." Gold blew out a relieved breath that he didn't have to speak her name. He considered Belle at the restaurant the other night, and on all the occasions he'd had the fortune of basking in her presence—how funny and sweet and lovely she was. "Different from your mother, but also from other women I've met who are self-important and spoiled. Your mother was…selfish. She didn't care about me or you. She wanted nothing to do with having a baby. I offered to marry her, to build a life with her, and she shut us out. The two of us were young, but still. Rejecting me was one thing, but she rejected you, and that I won't forgive."

"It's all right. You were everything I needed," Neal said. "I mean it."

"Belle isn't like that; she's not like any woman I've ever known." Gold sighed. "She's beautiful and brilliant and desirable. I want her to know that I see her that way, but I also love how humble she is."

"Be careful, Pop." Neal grimaced. "Everyone in town knows that Belle has been hurt and that her engagement to Sean didn't end well. And you told me yourself how insulting Sean was on your date. You've always taught me is that life isn't kind to people who don't fit the mold, so don't forget your own advice. You need to handle Belle with kid gloves. Don't let your feelings blind you to what she may be going through."

Gold nodded briskly. "I think I understand what you're saying, son."

"I'm not sure you do." Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I know you see how special Belle is, and that's wonderful. Someone should. She deserves to be treasured and respected and loved. But you need to consider that she may not see herself that way, and why."

Gold's eyes widened in realization. "You mean because she's bigger?"

Neal nodded, his expression serious.

"Why would that matter to anyone, let alone me? I'm a crippled little man who's too old for her." Incredulous, he stared at the ripples on the surface of the water. "When I first approached her with my interest, she asked if I was a chubby chaser. Before she mentioned it, I didn't even know what the term meant."

"It doesn't matter to you, but it matters to her. Women think about their bodies and their appearance much more than we realize and they're critical of what they see in the mirror. Emma is stunning, but there are days she refuses to eat anything but lettuce, makes me look at her butt in three different pairs of jeans, and no matter what I say, she tells me how ugly she is." Neal shook his head then clapped his father on the back.

"You have such a good heart, Pop, do you know that?"

Gold shrugged, contemplating Neal's words. His son had given him much to think on.

"Just take it slow and keep letting Belle set the pace," Neal advised. Then he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled for Henry to come back to the dock to pack up their gear.

"Appears that I'm the only man in this family who can't catch a fish," Gold teased as they lugged the fishing poles and bursting cooler back to the car. Even Henry had caught his share.

"But you caught Miss Belle; she's your kiss-kiss fish!" Henry pointed out helpfully. "And that's way better than a stinky old _real_ fish."

"From the mouths of babes." Neal chuckled and hefted the cooler. "Let's drop these at home and go to Granny's for a bite."

"Good deal," Gold said.

* * *

Belle rubbed her eyes and sipped Granny's strong black coffee as she waited for Emma, hoping the thick brew would keep her awake until the library closed at 9 o'clock. She really needed to get a proper night's sleep this evening.

Emma plopped into the booth ten minutes late, looking fresh-faced and scrubbed in form-fitting jeans, a soft white sweater, and boots. Emma was an all-American girl, and Belle felt a jolt of envy.

"Hey, Belle! Sorry I'm late," she said. Her jaunty blonde ponytail bobbed as she settled into her seat. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"Thank you for inviting me." Belle checked her watch under the table, hoping Emma would get to the point of this conversation sooner rather than later.

"So Belle, how did you become a librarian?" Emma asked, signaling for a waitress. She ordered hot chocolate and a plate of Granny's famous oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Belle's stomach rumbled as she heard Emma's order and her grudging esteem for the pretty blonde grew. Oatmeal chip was highly superior to oatmeal raisin. Apparently the only person who didn't understand that was Edith. Belle screwed up her face, thinking of her stepmother's disgusting breakfast "cookies." To call those raisin-studded hockey pucks a treat was an insult to cookies everywhere.

Emma stuffed one of the warm, gooey desserts in her mouth the moment the platter hit the laminate tabletop.

"Are you gonna make me sit here and eat these all alone?" she asked around a mouthful.

"You can eat all the cookies you want," Belle snapped, hating the jealous note in her voice.

Emma had been the thinnest girl in their class through graduation and even now, Belle found it difficult to forgive her for the good fortune of fantastic genetics.

Emma's green eyes were the size of silver dollars in her face. "Oh. I see." She set the half-eaten cookie down on her plate.

Ashamed of her outburst and her ugly thoughts, Belle scanned the restaurant. Sean was sitting at a booth in the back, picking at two slices of dry toast and looking miserable. Suddenly he bolted for the back of the house, tripping and stumbling as he banged into the restroom, and slammed the door with a moan. Through the door, Belle could hear Sean babbling, offering prayers to every deity he could dream up. Which wasn't many—Sean wasn't known for his big brain.

Belle hid a smile. If she didn't miss her guess, Marco had made good on his threat to give her ex's lasagna some extra zip.

Emma was far less subtle. "Serves the bastard right," she muttered, jerking her chin toward the bathroom as another" _Oh God, it burns,"_ was howled from behind the men's room door. Emma belted a loud laugh, clutching her stomach. Her enjoyment of Sean's discomfort was infectious, and Belle laughed along with her, tears of mirth running down her cheeks.

 _Yes, it does serve him right_ , Belle agreed silently, her spirit lifting in spite of her misgivings.

"Oh, wow. I haven't laughed that hard in years," Belle said, wiping her eyes with her napkin.

"Try ever!" Emma said through another snort of laughter.

"Now, why don't you tell me what you really want to talk about," Belle said gently. "You're not here to ask me about my job. And don't tell me this is all about a photo shoot, either."

"Way to cut through the crap, Belle," Emma said with a smile. "You're right. How are things with Gold?"

Belle choked on her coffee, spewing black liquid across the tabletop. _That's what I get for challenging her to be direct._

"We're…friends," Belle told Emma once she had mopped up the mess and could breathe again. Her fingers darted to her purse, clutching the outer pocket where she had tucked Gold's gift.

 _Liar, liar. Pants on fire._

"Really? Friends?" Emma echoed. "Because it seems to me that he really likes you."

"How do you know?" Belle asked. _Apparently Gold wasn't the only one fishing today._

"Because he insists on bringing Henry to the library even though I'm perfectly capable of doing it."

"He likes to spend time with his grandson," Belle reasoned.

"Because he stares at the library, waiting for you to walk by, when he should be working."

"A man has to look out the window once in a while."

"Because every time he looks at you he smiles and touches his hair, and I don't even think he realizes it."

"Gas pains?"

"Now you're just being ridiculous," Emma said, smirking. "Why won't you admit that there's something between you?"

"Maybe the fact that he's 160 pounds soaking wet, and ten pounds of that is Armani wool and a gold-tipped cane?" Belle said acerbically.

Gold stepped up to the booth. "Actually, this one is only about five pounds. I've a titanium one at home though." He lifted the cane slightly and grinned. "Hello, Belle."

"Hi." _Why, God? Why?_ Belle bit her tongue and smoothed her hair to cover her burning ears.

"It's good to see you," he said.

His eyes shone like liquid honey and Belle was grateful to have her backside squarely planted in the booth, the table covering her lap as her fingers twisted the edges of her sweater. Gold looked tanned and handsome and smelled of sunshine and sea air. Oh yes, fishing agreed with him.

"Thank you for the bookmark, Gold. The color—it's gorgeous. That shade of blue sea glass is extremely rare," she gushed.

"Bookmark? What bookmark?" Emma asked, picking up another cookie and looking back and forth between the two. But they were lost in each other's eyes, and Emma may as well have sunk into the wallpaper.

"You're welcome," Gold said, not sparing her a glance.

Emma watched with interest as Gold brushed a few strands of hair back from Belle's face. "I couldn't resist—it's the exact same color of your eyes. Rare and breathtaking," he said.

She crossed her arms and leaned back in the booth. "Where are Henry and Neal, Dad?"

"In the car," Gold muttered, his eyes never straying from Belle's face.

Yep, they were oblivious to her presence. Belle positively _glowed_ under Gold's attention and her father-in-law was grinning at her like an idiot. _Friends indeed._

Gold cleared his throat and gestured at Belle. "So, I called this morning."

"I got your message." Belle smiled.

"Are we on for this weekend? Saturday?" His voice dropped to a near-whisper and Emma strained to hear his next words. "I'd love to see you sooner, but I plan on keeping you out late—very late."

"Yes," Belle said. "I'd love to."

###

 _Thank you all for waiting for this chapter. How do you like the progression of the story?_

 _Also, the beginning segment IS a dream of Belle's past. Just want to make that clear in case it's not._


	8. What's in a Name

Summary: Belle runs into Emma while shopping and discovers they have more in common than she thought. Later, Gold and Belle embark on their second date; their excursion offers Belle an unexpected opportunity to comfort him.

A/N: I hope all who celebrated enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving! It continues to be a rare and beautiful pleasure to bring you this story. Your comments and encouragements touch my soul.

 _Kiss your own fingertips  
And hug your own curves.  
You are made of waves and honey  
and spicy peppers when it is necessary.  
You are a goddess,  
I hope you haven't forgotten._  
Emery Allen

Clothing stores were the enemy.

The stores themselves weren't to blame. Like most of the troubles in Belle's life, the fault seemed to be hers. She'd never understood the stereotypical female compulsion to buy pretty blouses or earrings, or to hunt down the "perfect" little black dress for a special occasion. Beyond the usual dilemma of fit and size, shopping simply didn't entice her. The stores smelled funny, the overstuffed racks overwhelmed her with choices, and the salespeople insisted on hovering nearby to unlock fitting room doors—a sadistic storewide advertisement that the fat girl was trying on clothes. No, _"_ Bookish Belle _"_ would much rather be reading, scribbling in her journal, or leafing through magazines for interior designs for the dream home that would always be out of reach.

But at the moment, she had no choice. She was standing in the center of an athletic boutique staring at rack upon rack of clothing—a cotton and spandex rainbow of tops, pants, and accessories—wondering what to tackle first. She yanked on the waistband of a pair of compression pants and the material snapped back, stinging her knuckle hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

 _Buck up, Belle. You need an outfit for Saturday afternoon._

For their second official date, Gold had suggested a walk along the beach, near the docks. Intriguing? Yes. Scary? Most definitely.

She imagined herself shuffling alongside him, wheezing as she walked, her enjoyment of the beach scenery spoiled by her pathetic attempt to keep up. And sand—was there a more challenging surface to walk on? On a positive note, she had to admit that the idea of lagging behind for a view of Gold's trim backside wasn't altogether unappealing.

She sucked in a breath and exhaled sharply, blowing tendrils of hair into the air. _Be brave, Belle, and everything will be fine_. _You can only walk one step at a time._

"Belle? Is that you?"

Belle saw a flash of red leather, then Emma Cassidy poked her head around a towering stack of zippered sweatshirts.

"Emma. Hi." Belle tried to form a smile, banking her disappointment at being discovered. There was a reason she had schlepped herself all the way to Portland, and it wasn't to be chummy with her quasi-boyfriend's daughter-in-law.

"I thought I recognized those chestnut curls." Emma's smile was broad and delighted. "What brings you to Portland?"

 _Oh, nothing. Running away from home?_

"Shopping, I guess." Belle gave the racks another distrustful glance. A full body physical complete with bloodwork and a weigh-in was preferable to choosing an outfit. During the hour-long drive from Storybrooke to the small, edgy metropolis, she had been trembling mass of anxiety. She didn't know where she was going, what she was wearing, or what they were doing.

Escaping her parents this morning hadn't been easy, either. Edith had been chirping and flapping around the house since daybreak, trying to inspire Belle to help clean their already sparkling home. Meanwhile, her father slouched at the kitchen table, nose-deep in oblivion and a fragrant stack of cinnamon rolls. Oh, how she'd longed to snatch one of those warm rolls from the plate! But eating pastries and then trying on clothes was the height of blasphemy.

When Belle finally peeled out of the driveway, drowning out the scents of Pine-Sol and cinnamon sugar with the stench of burning rubber, she was already exhausted.

Emma shook a large bag of purchases. "I've already checked out, so how about some company? I'll stick around until you're done."

"No, that's ok." Belle shook her head. "I wouldn't want to impose on your time."

"It's no trouble at all. Do you want to grab dinner when we're done? Henry and Neal are off camping in the woods, so I have all day. If I know my husband, those two will be eating a steady diet of bagels and cream cheese. Henry's almost as addicted to carbs as Neal is." She prattled on, oblivious to Belle's discomfort. "As long as they don't bring any animals home for me to clean and cook, we're good."

"Ok," Belle said distractedly. _Bagels_. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzing in her ears and the reminder of her skipped breakfast made her feel woozy. Avoiding one meal wouldn't make her svelte, but it was easier to suck in her gut and deal with buttons and zippers on an empty stomach.

"Are you ok?" Emma arched an eyebrow as Belle dabbed at her forehead with a tissue.

Bewildered, she looked around the store, searching for the plus sizes. "I don't know what to wear. To see Gold," she explained, growing hotter by the moment. She shucked off her coat. "You know Storybrooke: the options are two or three shops that don't even carry my size and now that I'm here where there are choices, I don't know where to look first." Belle cringed at her whiny, plaintive tone.

"He's just a friend though, right?" Emma teased with a wink.

Dejected, Belle dropped her shoulders. "I guess."

"Belle, I'm sorry." Emma squeezed her arm. "I won't tease you. Listen, I'm no fashionista, but I can put a sporty outfit together. Let me help, ok?"

"All right." Belle sensed that Emma meant well, so she swallowed her anxiety and decided to have a pleasant afternoon.

"So, what are we looking for?" Emma charged through the store like a woman on a mission.

"Something to go walking in."

Like a child, Belle followed as Emma marched across the aisle to another section of clothing. Oh thank God, there was a sign for the Women's Department.

"Ok." Emma smiled. "Walking, huh? What else are you two doing?"

"I'm not sure." Belle toyed with the hem of her cardigan. "Gold only mentioned walking. I hope I can keep up."

"Gold walks with a cane, remember?" Emma's voice was gentle as she sifted through a rack of long-sleeved t-shirts. "He won't be sprinting anywhere. And even if he could, he wouldn't. He's a gentleman, has been ever since I've known him. Besides, I'm sure he will want to take his time."

"Why's that?" Belle accepted two shirts that Emma thrust in her direction.

"He'll be busy staring at you, of course. I'll be surprised if he doesn't trip and fall on this little outing." Emma's eyes sparkled with mirth.

Belle shook her head hard, defending Gold. "He's quite graceful. The way he moves…it's like no man I've ever seen before." No sooner were the words out than she flinched. _Did I say that out loud?_

"I know just what you mean. It's like that when you're attracted to someone special." Emma smiled, still focused on the racks. "I like these athletic pants…they're soft and the fabric is lightweight and not clingy, super important for the skin to breath. And you would look fantastic in this wrap top—you've got terrific cleavage."

Belle hastily draped the shirts in her arms across her expansive chest.

Emma glanced down at her own slender torso and laughed. "I'm envious, I guess."

"You? Envy me? Why?"

"Girl, you have curves in all the right places. I would give anything just to have cleavage!" Emma lifted a pair of form-fitting spandex biking pants. "I wear these and I feel like my legs resemble twin licorice sticks."

Belle gawked at Emma. How could this stunning, vivacious creature have a low opinion of any part of herself? "Being thin and beautiful is different than being…this."

Emma's eyes widened. "Belle, you're one of the most stunning women I've ever met. And believe me, Gold has noticed. I've seen the way he looks at you. In the diner the other day, he couldn't tear his eyes away. That's more than a clear complexion and a pretty smile—that's a beauty that comes from your soul."

Not knowing how to reply, Belle blushed and trained her gaze on the ugly grey carpet.

"You never did answer my question at Granny's that day." Emma gestured toward the fitting room area. "What are you afraid of, really?"

"I told you, he's—"

Emma shook her head and handed Belle two more outfits. "Weight is just a number. Like age or a dress size. It's only meaning is the one people assign to it. You don't think less of him for being old enough to be your father, do you?"

"That's-that's different," Belle said, carrying Emma's selections to the dressing room. Thankfully, there were no salespeople in sight and the doorknob turned with ease. "Anyway, God assigned me a really big number."

"I'm sorry." Emma chewed her thumbnail and Belle closed the dressing room door.

"Don't apologize." Belle pulled on the athletic pants and sucked in her gut before looking in the mirror. She was no Botticelli, but the reflection wasn't grotesque. "I don't expect you to understand. You burp and men think it's adorable. You get drunk, and they queue up at the Rabbit Hole to hold your hair back while you puke."

"Ha!" An unladylike snort came from beyond the fitting room. "I can tell you for a fact that's not true. Gold has never once offered to hold my hair back, or even offered me an aspirin even when I'm hung over."

"That doesn't count," Belle called, changing back into her street clothes. "He's your father-in-law."

"So what?" Emma asked. "And I _do_ understand. More than you know."

"Emma, no offense," Belle opened the door with a sigh. "I appreciate everything you're trying to do here, but we don't have much in common."

"Is that what you think?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest. "When we were in school, do you know what the kids used to call me?"

"Angel?" Belle couldn't resist the note of sarcasm. When had Emma Swan Cassidy ever being the source of derision and ridicule?

" _Bones_. Because I was so flat-chested."

"Really?" Belle hovered in the fitting room doorway, her nerve endings prickling with shame.

"Truth. When we would change for gym class, my so-called friends would count my ribs when I lifted my shirt over my head. It was horrible." Belle could hear a faint note of sorrow in Emma's voice, the memory of a pain that never fully healed.

Belle headed toward the checkout holding a pair of soft black yoga pants and two wrap tops, one in emerald green, the other a soft, baby blue.

"I hated gym class, too," Belle confided with a sympathetic smile.

Emma tilted her head. "I bet you've had a tough time walking into a room full of people on your own."

Belle thrust out her chin, trying not to cry.

"I know what it's like to be invisible. To want to shrink and hide and not take up space. There were days…" Emma trailed off, a faraway look etched into her face. "And then other times, you don't feel like you're even in the room until someone looks at you, or touches your hand, or speaks to you, even if no one else can hear their words. Just letting everyone know…you're with them. You belong somewhere."

Wet blue eyes met damp green ones, and a tear rolled down Belle's cheek. Perhaps she _had_ misjudged Emma. She'd been so focused on her own body image issues, it never occurred to her that a woman like Emma could experience the same self-loathing for a different reason.

"Sure you don't need anything else? I spied some clearance Brooks in the back of the store," Emma said, swiping at her own eyes.

Belle considered. "I could use some new walking shoes. Let's do it."

xoxo

The kitchen at Marco's Cucina was warm and fragrant with the spicy scents of marinara and basil. Pots and skillets banged and hissed as the staff bustled around preparing for the dinner rush.

Gold leaned against the doorjamb, absorbing the symphony of smells, sights, and textures, as Marco stuffed a picnic basket for his date with Belle.

"Mr. Gold, I prepared something very special for you and Bella. House-made ricotta and honey, fresh imported figs, prosciutto and melon—" he paused to hold up a crusty loaf of bread, the crust crackling under his fingertips. "And vino."

"Sounds perfect. Thank you, Marco."

The chef tucked a bottle of chianti into the corner of the hamper and closed the basket. "What are your plans?"

"It's a fine day, so I thought we would take a stroll and then stop somewhere to enjoy your picnic. Perhaps the park?"

"Si." Marco's nod of approval was sharp. "Romantico. Maybe you will stop back here later for espresso?"

The tips of Gold's ears went hot as he recalled his boast to keep Belle out until all hours of the night. "We'll see if she can stand my company for that long," he joked, only partly kidding.

Gold prided himself on the ability to see through people, to understand their goals, desires, and drives. Those qualities made him a good reporter. But when it came to Belle, he never quite knew what she was thinking. Was she enjoying his company even half as much as he was hers?

Marco lumbered around the steel countertop, lugging the filled picnic hamper. The old man's face gleamed with pleasure. "I don't know much, Mr. Gold. But am Italian so I know food and love. And I know my Bella. I have never seen her so happy as she has been spending time with you these past few weeks."

With that, Marco clapped Gold on the back and flung open the kitchen door to the sunny, brisk autumn afternoon.

xoxo

Whistling, Gold ambled toward the library. When he rounded the corner that brought the building into view, his heart danced a jig. Belle was waiting for him outside, looking adorable in a pair of sporty jogging pants and pink sneakers. Her hair was swept to the side and pinned up in high ponytail.

"I'm underdressed," she observed when he reached her, touching a finger to the pocket square that completed his usual three-piece pinstripe ensemble.

"You're beautiful," he blurted, then noticed the massive black sweatshirt she wore. She was swimming in the thing. A rush of disappointment tempered his excitement; Belle was so lovely, and he wanted to see all of her lush curves and rounded softness. He wondered if a day would come that she would unveil herself and trust him with her heart.

"Thank you." She treated him to one of her sunny smiles and he stared back, stupefied.

"Warm day, isn't it? Peculiar for autumn." _Scintillating, Gold._

"Indian Summer." She squinted into the sunshine. "Thanks for meeting me at work. I'm outside because Cordelia was pumping me about our date and I had no details to offer." She paused and looked at him. "Where exactly are we going?"

"I thought we'd take a stroll." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

"Yes." She tucked her arm into his elbow. They began to walk, their gait slow and easy, but Gold was having trouble stuffing down his pride. He could have sworn he looked like a peacock, strutting down Main Street with the most beautiful woman on the planet on his arm.

He wiped at the perspiration dotting his brow, both from the heat and the pleasure of strolling the streets with Belle where every citizen of Storybrooke could see they were together.

"How are things at the library?" he asked.

Belle wrinkled her nose. "The ceiling's full of mold. We need to make some large-scale repairs and this morning I hired Cassidy Construction to help us out. Leroy is a good handyman, but we need the best."

"Neal certainly is that." Gold's mind wandered to the space above the library as he steered Belle toward the shore. He almost asked if she would consider renting the spot as an apartment, then thought better of it.

"May I ask you something personal?"

"Ok." She trudged down the sidewalk, still looking straight ahead.

Gold paused to lay a hand on her arm, giving her sweatshirt sleeve a gentle tug.

"Why do you cover yourself all the time? It's a warm day, the sun is shining, and you're wearing layers. Wouldn't you like to take off your sweatshirt?" he coaxed. "I have some sunscreen in my car if you need it."

"It's not that." She colored, hanging her head.

"What is it, then?" he pressed. "Why do you cover yourself?"

She fingered the drawstring of the new garment, blue flames flickering in her eyes. "I expect it's for the same reason you do," she guessed. "Armor against a cruel world."

"Wouldn't you like to take off some of that armor?"

"Wouldn't you?" she retorted.

He threw back his head and laughed. She was forever catching him off guard with her wonderful wit and sharp tongue.

"Belle." He framed her face with his hands, cupping the apples of her soft cheeks. "Listen to me, ok? You are gorgeous, sweetheart, and you've nothing to…you don't need to hide. Not from me. All right?"

She worried her lower lip between her teeth. It was her little tell; a gesture she made whenever she was trying to make a decision.

"Now, I'll make you a deal," he continued with a wink. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

"Ok," she said expectantly, wearing a tiny smile, and watched as he removed his jacket, gracefully draping it over his arm. She admired the crisp sleeves of his shirt as they hugged his strong shoulders, the way his waistcoat accentuated his trim waist and hips.

Belle soon followed, removing the hooded sweatshirt to reveal a fuschia top with a ruched waist and a deep neckline. The vivid color made her skin glow, and Gold couldn't help but follow the neckline of her shirt for a fleeting glance at her décolletage .

"Perhaps the next time I see you, you'll do something drastic, like wear jeans," she teased.

His answering grin was lopsided. "You never know."

xoxo

They continued their walk, the hoots of youngsters and the squeak of the swing set heralding their arrival at the park. Tired of carting her sweatshirt, Belle wrapped it around her waist and tied the arms like a bow—at the very least she could cover her bulging middle.

She snuck a glance at Gold. He was still staring at her, the sunshine and the naked admiration in his caramel eyes making her feel warm and flustered. His pupils were blown slightly, a small hint of a fire raging within.

"Isn't that better?" he asked huskily, almost colliding with a park bench.

"Yes." Belle bit her lip to smother a giggle at how distracted he was. Because of _her._ She had to admit she felt lighter and freer without the heavy garment.

"Now, are you hungry? Because I've been carrying this picnic basket for almost a mile and I've been dying to get into it all afternoon," he said. "Marco has assured me that its contents are magical."

Belle's stomach rumbled in reply. "That sounds like heaven."

A loud noise pierced the air, startling them both.

Belle raised her gaze to the sky as a wrecking ball swung into view. "Must be starting on that new building everyone's been talking about," Belle said, turning to Gold for confirmation.

Gold nodded. "My son, uh, Neal is working on…" He swayed on his feet.

Alarmed by his pale complexion, Belle grabbed his arm. "Gold? What is it?"

He shook his head wildly, his lips pinched together in a tight line.

Belle seized his hand and dragged him to the nearest park bench. "Sit." She sifted through the picnic basket and withdrew the icepack Marco had used to keep the food fresh. She pressed the cold gel against his cheek. "Are you sick?"

He closed his eyes, the lines on his forehead standing out in stark relief.

"Hey," she said, drawing a finger from his temple to his chin. "Gold. Look at me." He lifted his eyelids, the golden orbs frightened and glassy, reminding her of a cornered animal. Ice-cold and clammy, his hands gripped hers so tightly it cut off the blood flow to her arms. The numbness didn't matter; all she cared about was wiping that terrified look off his face. Belle did the only thing she could think of—she slammed her eyes shut and molded her lips to his, hard and urgent.

His lips were hard at first, cold and unyielding. Then he opened his mouth to her and groaned, slumping forward into her arms. She continued her tender exploration, touching her tongue to his in a light, tentative stroke and curling her fingers into the soft hair at his nape.

She pulled back from the kiss and waited, still caressing his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

"Belle?" He sounded weak and anxious, but the color that had drained his face was slowly returning.

"You're back," she breathed, relieved. Hungrily, she searched his face, trying to read the truth in his eyes. "What happened?"

"I…it's nothing." His lip twitched. "A minor reaction to loud noises. Happens every once in a while but I'm fine."

"If you're sure." Belle was skeptical. She knew that look all too well, for she'd worn it many times. It was the guilty expression of someone who was hiding.

"Will you tell me something?" she asked to distract him, brushing a bit of hair off his forehead.

"What would you like to know?"

"Your name." Belle's heart beat a staccato rhythm in response to her boldness. "I know everyone calls you Gold, but I was hoping maybe you would be willing to share your given name? With me?"

A lifetime of heartbeats passed as she waited.

"Promise not to laugh?"

"I would never laugh at you," she said.

He hedged. "My middle name is quite a bit lovelier than my first."

"So tell me that, too." Belle rubbed her hand up and down his arms, trying to relax his stiff posture. "I want to know _all_ your names."

"Town monster. Scourge of Storybrooke. And then there's my personal favorite: Evil Bastard."

"Gold…" she admonished.

His grin was pained. "It's Erskine. Erskine Henry Gold."

"Erskine?" Belle rolled the name off her tongue. "I love that. It's so distinguished. I'm sure you know it means 'projecting height' in Gaelic."

"Because I'm so tall." He tittered, wriggling his fingers at his 5'6" frame. Then he frowned. "I loathe that name. I've been called 'Gold' for so long that no one even bothers using it anymore. A few people know it, of course, and it's on all my legal documents. Can't help that."

"So all your bylines as a reporter? They simply read 'E. H. Gold?'" Belle opened the picnic basket. She tore off a chunk of bread and put it on a plate along with some figs and a heaping spoonful of ricotta. She swirled the fruit through the cheese and dangled it in front of him.

"That's right."

Belle thought for a moment. "If you truly hate your first name, you could always have it changed. But I like it. It makes you seem more mysterious, especially the fact that so few people use it." She brought the fig to his lips. "I do love a good mystery."

He grinned and sank his teeth into the fig, his warm lips brushing her fingertips. The juice dribbled down her hand and Belle licked the sticky sweetness off her pinky finger, then gasped as he leaned forward to take one of her fingers in his mouth. His amber eyes bore into hers as he slowly drew back, releasing the digit with soft pop. Heat pulsed throughout her body, and her mouth watered for a sustenance that food couldn't provide.

His breath was warm and the stubble on his chin brushed against her face. "And what have you uncovered so far, Inspector Belle?" he asked hoarsely, capturing her lips before she could form a reply.

Her own breath ragged, she whispered into his mouth, "Do you really want to know what I think?"

He grinned and sank his teeth into the fig, his warm lips brushing her fingertips. The juice dribbled down her hand and Belle licked the sticky sweetness off her pinky finger, then gasped as he leaned forward to take one of her fingers in his mouth. His amber eyes bore into hers as he slowly drew back, releasing the digit with soft pop. Heat pulsed throughout her body, and her mouth watered for a sustenance that food couldn't provide.

His breath was warm and the stubble on his chin brushed against her face. "And what have you uncovered so far, Inspector Belle?" he asked hoarsely, capturing her lips before she could form a reply.

Her own breath ragged, she whispered into his mouth, "Do you really want to know what I think?"

"I want to know _everything_ that you think."

Belle clasped her hands behind his neck and stared into his eyes. "You are one of the kindest, most generous people I have ever met. And when I'm with you, I'm not lonely."

"Oh, Belle," he said, drawing her into his embrace. "Me too."

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck as he tightened his hold, a tender give and take of comfort and affection.

And for the first time since her mother died, Belle French felt perfectly happy.

###


	9. Not Even the Rain

Chapter Summary: Belle's car breaks down in the rain and she heads to Gold's house for refuge.

A/N: Happy New Year. Thank you for your continued support of this story!

"(i do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens; only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"  
e.e. cummings

It was an unfortunate night for a flat tire, Belle thought, as she slowed to a stop at the corner of Chestnut and Pine streets. Not that such an inconvenience was ever welcome, but breaking down three miles from home with a flat tire and no spare in a rainstorm? Bad. Belle wondered what she had done to provoke the universe's ire.

"So close yet so far," she muttered aloud as she shifted into park and allowed the engine to idle.

Belle pulled out her mobile phone and squinted at the screen. One bar and four percent power. She tapped against the steering wheel, weighing her options. She had one call, maybe. Did she call for a tow, or ask her absentminded father (who rarely answered his phone) to come and pick her up?

She settled on the more reliable towing company, but a quick Google search for the phone number was enough to kill the battery completely.

Fantastic. She was stranded in the pouring rain with a dead cell phone and according to the dash, the temperature was dropping.

As the rain washed down the windshield in sheets, Belle was grateful she'd cut short the Thursday evening writer's workshop at the first sight of menacing, black clouds. Mary Margaret Nolan had been perturbed about being interrupted mid-lecture, but Henry's grandmother or no, Belle had to be firm. The group didn't need thirty more minutes of practice on comma placement. She should have followed them all out the door at once. Instead she had succumbed to organizational temptation, shelving books and closing files until the library was in perfect order, ready to throw open its doors and accept the next day's checkouts and returns.

In her haste to dash from the library door to the car without getting soaked, she'd also forgotten her coat. Her umbrella was locked in the trunk, another poor decision.

The library was spinning like a top, but her personal organization was seriously lacking.

Now it was dark, late, and storming like a bitch.

A tremor ran through her body, and Belle huddled deeper inside her damp cardigan as the storm intensified, willing the steering wheel to tell her what to do. She raised her head. _Gold_. Why hadn't she thought of him before?

Guilt pricked at her conscience. She hadn't considered him because she didn't want to rely on him.

They had only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks—fifteen days to be exact, not that she was counting. Their four dates (Marco's, a picnic in the park, an impromptu coffee meetup, and a special playing of _Sabrina_ at Storybrooke's one-screen movie theatre) had been in public venues, so she'd never been to his home before. However, he'd been hinting around giving her a tour and treating her to a home-cooked meal, so she was reasonably certain of her welcome. And, as luck would have it, Gold's house was only a short block-and-a-half walk from where she'd broken down. Of course, 'short' in the sun and 'short' in a torrential downpour were two entirely different matters.

Leaving her vehicle meant getting drenched, but waiting out the rainstorm with her _friend?...boyfriend?...almost-boyfriend?_ was far more preferable than sitting in her car until the storm blew over. Yes, she would brave the rain.

Lightning flashed in the distance and the thunder rumbled in reply, reminding her to move, and do it quickly. Belle grabbed her purse, hiked her sweater over her head, and dashed in the direction of Gold's house without bothering to lock the car.

"God, please help me find it," she prayed as she hurried through the storm. It was nearly impossible to see through the veritable torrent of water pouring from the black sky, but Belle ran as fast as she could. Waddling down the sidewalk, she felt like a duck, her breasts bouncing and slapping against her wet skin and her thighs rubbing together as she allowed adrenaline and instinct to carry her to Gold's doorstep.

The hulking Victorian materialized through the rain, light blazing from every window. It was a beacon of welcome, and Belle cried out as she ran the final steps down the sidewalk and up the walk.

When she arrived at the door, she was winded, soaked, and shaking with cold. Her feet squished inside her shoes as she shifted from foot to foot on the porch. With a slippery finger, she reached out to ring the doorbell. _Oh, please let him be home._

xoxo

The peal of the doorbell made him lurch to his feet and hurry to the door. He threw it wide, not even checking to see who there. _Please, let it be…_

"Belle!" Relieved, he threw his arms around her and pressed his lips to her wet temple. "Thank God. I've been so worried. I knew you had the writer's workshop, but that ended hours ago. I've been calling and calling…"

"My battery died. I stayed too long at the library and lost track of time." She eased out of his embrace and patted his chest. "I'm sorry, now I've got you all wet."

Distractedly, he looked down at the patches of wetness dotting his shirt. Belle pulled back, wrapping her arms about her middle, and Gold almost whimpered at the loss of contact. "I don't care about a little rainwater, Belle. I'm just so thankful that you're safe. This weather's going to get worse before it gets better."

Rain pummeled the west side of the house and a tree branch scratched against the front window, punctuating his forecast.

He returned his attention to Belle. Lord, she was a sight for sore eyes! Wet hair clung to her neck in soppy ringlets, and her eyes were a bright contrast to her alabaster skin. Her lower lip was tinged blue and trembling, and her clothes clung to her body like a second skin.

"Gold?"

"Yes?"

She arched her eyebrows hopefully. "Do you think I could trouble you for a towel, please?"

"Oh! Right!" _Fantastic, old man. Way to make a woman feel welcome._ Thunderstruck, he swallowed heavily. "You're beautiful when you're…wet." _Good God, what was he saying?_

A sudden warmth bloomed in her face, coloring the apples of her cheeks, and she smiled. They both looked down at the puddle of water circling her feet.

Embarrassed, he smiled back, fearing it looked more like a grimace. "Let me find you some dry clothes, Belle," he said in a rush, "and then I'll put the kettle on for tea."

"That would be heavenly," she said.

"Come, sit down," he directed, taking her ice-cold hand and leading her into the living room to the left of the foyer. He guided her toward an aged leather recliner close to the fire, the one he'd been squirming in when she showed up on his doorstep. He didn't sit there often, but it seemed like the kind of chair a bachelor should have, so he kept it.

Belle chewed her lip. It was an expression she often wore when she was undecided what to do next. "But I'll ruin this beautiful chair," she protested after a moment, shaking her head.

"It's leather. I can wipe the water off later. Now sit," he ordered again. _He was talking to her like she was a Labrador retriever._ "Please," he added, rethinking his authoritative tone. Using a thick blanket, he dabbed at the rivulets of water dripping from her face, then wrapped the fleece around her shoulders. "I want you to be comfortable."

"All right," she said, collapsing into the chair with a long shiver and dropping her handbag heavily on the floor.

"Now, let's get you out of those wet clothes. I mean, uh, I'll find some dry things for you to change into." He gestured in the direction of the staircase. "I'll go and get them."

With Belle settled for the moment, he hobbled up the steps to rummage through his drawers. By the time he reached the landing, he was panting. He'd been nearly frantic before Belle's sudden arrival, calling all over town in search of her—Marco, Cordelia, Emma, the library, even her parents.

Though he knew it was foolish, he couldn't seem to help imagining the worst—in his mind's eye he saw her car hydroplaning and wrapping around an oak tree. Then he'd immediately felt guilty, both for his morbid thoughts and the reason for them. Had he earned the right to worry about his _friend?...girlfriend?...almost girlfriend?_ Confusion settled in.

Opening his armoire, he started to flip through his rarely-worn sweats and t-shirts in search of something cozy and appropriate. Belle was a modest young woman, and though he would have loved to see one of his button-down shirts clinging to her lush curves, he sensed that being on display would make her uncomfortable. He searched his memory: _what had Neal advised? Oh, right. Allow Belle to set the pace._ Gold pinched his nose and sighed, wondering how on earth his son had become much more intelligent and worldly than his father was.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman in his home, and his nerves were getting the better of him.

After what seemed like an eternity of hunting through clothes, he emerged from his bedroom with an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft, voluminous pajama pants with an elastic waistband. Stopping by the hallway linen closet, he added a thick, hotel-style robe to the pile for good measure and set everything out in the guest bathroom with a new toothbrush and fresh towels.

xoxo

Once Gold rounded the corner to head upstairs, Belle looked down at herself and moaned aloud in embarrassment. Her sweater was sticking to her breasts and her back and her long skirt clung to her thighs and belly.

When she'd been standing at the door, dripping all over his polished cherry floors like a daft fool, his gaze had dipped over her too-round body outlined in the clinging clothes—top to bottom and back again, making her heart skitter and leap.

Ever the gentleman, Gold had swooped in to take care of her, throwing the door open in welcome. His concern for her welfare in the storm warmed her heart and made her feel safe and cared for. While she waited for the promised dry clothes, she marveled at his spacious, well-appointed home. It was such a stark contrast to the sparse, impersonal house she shared with her father and Edith.

Curious, she slid out of the chair to explore, cringing when the friction of her wet backside and thighs made a squelching sound against the leather. Everywhere she looked, custom bookshelves were filled with an eclectic mix of items. There were masks and paintings, small sculptures and vases, and a stack of postcards. A few painted walking sticks were propped in a corner. It reminded her of her own room—cluttered—Edith always pronounced it, scrunching up her face like a prune. But to Belle it looked lived in. She enjoyed being surrounded by pretty, interesting things, and seeing that Gold shared her passion for décor made her feel at home and closer to him.

Before long, she heard his cane tapping on the hardwood and she returned to the chair, feeling a pang of guilt for snooping. With interest, she watched him crouch down by the hearth to poke and prod the dying fire into a roaring blaze with the dexterity and efficiency of an Eagle Scout. It seemed there was nothing he could not do. Plus, he really did have the most beautiful hands she had ever seen. He turned to her, smiled, and guided her to her feet once more.

"I've put some things out for you in the guest bathroom upstairs. It's the second door on the right," he said, ushering her through the foyer and up the first two steps. Gold pressed two long, warm fingers against her back, making her toes curl inside her waterlogged shoes and her belly tighten in sensual delight. The warmth of his touch burned through the wet cotton of her clothing, and she bounded up the stairs wide-eyed, enthralled by being with him in his home.

Once she was inside the spacious guest bath, she stripped off her soaked garments and wrung out the excess water, draping them over the shower curtain rod to dry. Unfortunately, her bra and panties were soaked through as well, and she was thankful for the dark fleece pajama pants and soft, dark grey cotton t-shirt he'd given her to change into. The robe was a luxurious Egyptian cotton, the kind one would find at a posh health spa, and it felt like a hug as she wrapped it around her and knotted the sash.

She brushed her teeth, then looked through her purse, thankful she carried a small amount of makeup and a comb. Already wet enough, she decided to forgo a shower, but combed her tangled locks out before she dusted her face with powder and touched up her lip-gloss. She did the powder and gloss by Braille, avoiding the mirror. Her hands shook a little as she tried to screw the lid back on the lip-gloss. She swished some mouthwash around, then took a deep breath and went downstairs.

The rich scents of stewed tomatoes and melting cheese greeted her as she padded into Gold's kitchen to find him stirring a pot on the stove. Her stomach growled, and she realized she was ravenous.

"Hey." Gold poured hot water from the whistling kettle into a white porcelain cup decorated with a bright blue branch, dropped in a bag of PG Tips, then set it on the table. "Drink some tea and warm up."

"Thank you." Belle shivered again, despite the cozy pajamas and robe.

"I would offer to drive you home, but this hail is supposed to last all night." He met her eyes. "It would be safer for you to stay here."

 _He wanted her to stay?_ "I don't want to impose," she hedged. "Are you sure?"

"More than sure. In fact, I insist on seeing to your safety." His intense eyes pleaded with her to agree.

Belle hesitated. There would be some explaining to do tomorrow when she got home, she knew. Edith was unlikely to let this go without an inquisition. Belle shrugged and shoved the thought away; perhaps she would simply lie and say she bunked at the library all night.

"Then I would love to stay." Belle said. His delighted, answering grin made her heart flip-flop. "I really appreciate the change of clothes and tea. And it smells delicious in here."

"Are you hungry? It's not the fettuccine alfredo I planned on preparing when you came for a proper visit, but I have tomato soup and turkey sandwiches. Chips too, if you like."

"You make fettuccine alfredo?" Belle was impressed. She hated to even boil water. Whenever she cooked, she had a terrible tendency to forget to mind the stove. Even when attempting to follow a cookbook recipe, she would become engrossed in the writer's anecdotes and forget what she was supposed to be cooking. It was one of the hazards of being a voracious reader.

" _Si_." He nodded jauntily. "Marco's recipe."

"Oh, really?" She sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of her tea. "He's sharing closely guarded family recipes with you now? He must like you," she teased, knowing how fond Marco was of Gold. She watched her host move gracefully around the kitchen, plating their impromptu meal like a five-star chef.

Gold laughed and set a towering turkey sandwich and a generous side of potato chips in front of her, along with a steaming crock of soup covered in melted cheese. "Well, he only parted with the one. I think he simply wants to ensure that his _Bella_ is properly fed even when you're not eating at his table."

Belle grinned. Yes, that sounded like Marco.

She nibbled on her sandwich and chips and took dainty sips of the soup, even though everything was delicious and she was starving.

"Sweetheart," Gold said, stopping her from fidgeting as she toyed with a chip. She met his eyes and looked at his plate and bowl. Both were empty. "Go ahead and eat. It's long past suppertime and no one is watching."

Belle swallowed thickly and gave him a grateful look. She was getting better about eating in front of other people, Gold most of all, but she still needed to be reminded.

She picked up her sandwich and took an earnest bite. She didn't stop eating until only crumbs peppered the plate and every last drop of soup was gone.

Gold smiled his approval, then he cleared the dishes away and clapped his hands once. "How about a tour?" Content and happy, Belle rose from the table and accepted his outstretched hand.

Together, they toured his home, as Gold regaled her with stories of his war correspondent days. He showed her the parlour with its many trinkets from far-away lands, and each of the second floor bedroom suites, all of which featured their own fireplace.

"This will be your room tonight," he said, nodding toward the largest suite, which was decorated in rich shades of blue and cream.

Gold saved the best for last, however, concluding the tour in his vast library. It featured a desk with a reading lamp, and two large, plush Queen Anne chairs graced either side of the massive fireplace. The room looked like something out of a Victorian home in the English countryside, and Belle loved its cozy beauty.

Most of all, she was awed by the sheer volumes of books gracing the old oak shelves. His solid collection of grammar and style books, lined up on an eye-level shelf, were the most well-worn. A fat selection of children's books adorned the shelves closest to the floor and Belle sat down cross-legged to inspect, running her fingers over a first edition set of Beatrix Potter's _Peter Rabbit_ series.

Belle marveled at how far their relationship had progressed in a short time. For years he had come to the library to borrow books on politics, business, and writing. More recently, he'd been coming in for children's stories. Now she was a guest in his home admiring a collection that rivaled what she offered in town.

"Those are for Henry," Gold said.

"Impressive. You have more children's books here than we have at the library," she said lightly.

"Well," Gold cleared his throat and his eyes locked with hers. "Henry likes the reading hour and the scenery at Storybrooke Public is positively breathtaking."

"Books love anyone who opens them," she said, her pulse tripping over the compliment. "It doesn't matter where."

"If that is true, you must have a vast array of admirers. Do I need to be jealous?" he asked, his tone teasing.

"No," she decided. "You're the best book I've opened yet."

xoxo

"It's a large home for one person," he said apologetically when they returned to the first floor. "I often think about letting this old place go, maybe leasing myself a one bedroom apartment in one of my buildings."

"What?" She whirled around, her face crestfallen. "No, this house is incredible. All the nooks and special details. It's a decorator's dream. Oh, Erskine, you can't sell your wonderful home."

She pressed her hands to her cheeks when she said his name, a gorgeous blush blooming over her face. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her mortified expression.

"Oh…should I not have said that?" she asked meekly.

"It's all right. I like the sound of my name on your lips," he said, leaning closer. His hand came to rest against her neck, just under her earlobe. "Say it again."

"Erskine," she whispered, her eyes wide and impossibly blue as he closed the distance between them.

He placed a slow, chaste kiss on her lips, every nerve in his body roaring to life at the touch of her soft mouth. He pulled back slowly, and invited her to sit on the couch.

The rain continued its loud steady drumbeat on the roof. Gold lit some candles, stoked the fire, and cued up the movie _Moonstruck,_ a recommendation from Marco. That was him—moonstruck by the woman seated on the opposite cushion of the couch. The power would probably go off soon, but they could enjoy a bit of mindless entertainment while it lasted.

The movie started, and Belle scooted closer to him on the couch, surprising him when she lifted his arm and rested it across the back of her shoulders. She snuggled into his side, then tipped her head up to smile at him.

"There, that's better," she said softly, and turned her attention back to the screen.

Awestruck, Gold smiled as his beautiful Belle snuggled closer to him. Her presence both soothed and ignited him, and he was overwhelmed by the sensations of having her in his home and in his arms. They reclined in comfortable silence for a long time, and as the movie wore on, Belle leaned back against his chest.

Gold sighed with pleasure as her gentle curves molded against him; she was so soft. Plump, warm, and intensely female. He could smell her damp hair, the freshness of her skin—the intoxicating combination made his blood burn.

"I'm beginning to get sleepy," she admitted, craning her neck back and looking at him with vague, unfocused eyes.

"Well, then, let me kiss you goodnight," he said huskily. He leaned down and placed a sweet kiss to her forehead, then dipped lower to kiss the tip of her nose. As his lips found hers, Belle moaned softly against his mouth, and his tongue twitched, slipping out to taste her lips. Belle parted her lips, allowing him entrance, and he kissed her deeply, passionately, their tongues twining as they breathed the same air. She tasted like tomato soup and sugar, and Gold brought his hand up to cup her cheek as he kissed her. Along the way, his forearm slid across the underside of one of her soft, generous breasts. Without thinking, he flattened his hand against the curve, and his thumb ghosted up and over her breast, feeling the taut nipple beneath the soft cotton of her, _his,_ t-shirt. Belle's hand found his immediately, and without breaking the kiss, she squeezed and held it in place, until they came up for air and she moved his hand back to his side.

"You copped a feel," she said, her eyes dark but sparkling with mirth.

"Belle, I'm so sorry," he stammered, ashamed. _What was that self-talk upstairs about taking it slow?_

"Don't be." Belle raised up to give him a quick peck on the lips. "I enjoyed it." She yawned, then settled back against his chest and nodded off to sleep.

While Belle slept, the storm raged on, transitioning from rain to hail. He tensed, the noise overwhelming him for a moment, but holding Belle in his arms soothed and distracted him.

He'd gone into a panic on their walk a couple of weeks ago, his first in months, and she'd drawn him out of it with her sweet touch and tender kiss. Praying he could avoid tumbling into another attack, he forced his limbs to relax and focused on the deep, even rhythm of her breathing.

xoxo

Gold woke up in the dark, startled by the sound of bullets.

He was in a dusty, gray, desolate place. All he could see was a landmine, a child standing shirtless and dirty in its midst, wearing Neal's face. It was always Neal.

Blood thundered in his ears, and a trickle of cold sweat chased down his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his shaking hand. His blood ran cold, the hair on his arms standing at attention as adrenaline kicked in. His inner core began to shiver, his muscles frozen into place. Belle was snoring softly, a peaceful weight in his arms and he didn't want to wake her.

"Hail, Gold," he whispered, recalling the storm. "It's only hail."

His teeth chattered, the cacophony of hailstones beating on the roof jarring him.

"Erskine?" Belle's sleepy voice drifted through the cold air.

"It's all right, Belle," he said, breathing hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting her to see him like this again. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

"This happened before," she whispered. "At the park." He felt the couch cushion shift as she sat up, pulling away from him. She lit a fresh candle, illuminating the blackness. Soon he felt the warmth of her body against his once more, her warm palms caressing his face.

"Erskine…" She took his face between both hands and steadied him, her eyes searching his in the candlelight until they locked and held. "Hey, I'm here. I am right here. You're ok. Breathe with me."

Belle's words calmed him, and his eyes dropped to her lips, where he focused on the soothing melody of her voice and the motion of her mouth crooning assurances.

Allowing his head to drift to her shoulder, he broke through the storm raging in his mind, and sank into the safe harbor that was Belle.

###


	10. Awakenings

Summary: Gold awakens to a surprise. Later, Gold and Belle take their relationship to the next level and Belle takes a stand.

 _Hey guys! Lots happening in this chapter. I hope some of your questions will be answered and that you're happy with the direction of the story.  
HUGE NEWS: I am incredible excited to announce that this story has been nominated in The Espenson Awards (TEAs) on Tumblr in both the categories of Best Trend and Best Fic. I cannot tell you how humbled and grateful I am that you nominated All of Me in both these categories! If you would like to vote for this story (and I really hope you do!) voting begins on Tumblr on January 29th, 2017 and ends on February 4th, 2017 11:59 PM (CST)._

 _post/156247621275/masterlist-of-nominations-pt2_  
 _post/156247608340/masterlist-of-nominations-pt1_

 _We are a thousand voices strong  
We are each a girl who sings this song  
We are a beauty that's our own  
and we are, and we are  
So Beautiful  
—Superchick_

Gold awoke surrounded by warmth and softness, reluctant to stir. Never had his bed been quite so comfortable.

Brushing away the cobwebs of sleep, he blinked and nuzzled his cheek against the pillow. It was the softest, most luxurious pillow he'd ever lain his head upon. Content, he closed his eyes again, savoring the last vestiges of sleep before he faced the sunlight streaming through the windows. But his limbs were boneless from slumber and he couldn't have moved if he tried.

Lavender. He breathed in the sweetness of lavender and vanilla, then nuzzled deeper into the pillow and groaned, wrapping his arms tighter around its middle and mapping its curves with his palms. He wanted to hold her for just a few more minutes.

 _Her?_

Gold snapped to consciousness. His head was cushioned not by a pillow covered in Egyptian cotton sheets, but by Belle's soft, generous breasts. The robe she was wearing— _his robe—_ was gaping open from neck to waist. The thin grey t-shirt he had loaned her last night dipped and stretched over her glorious curves. Dark spots of moisture dotted her chest.

 _Oh God—he had drooled on Belle._

He lifted his head from her chest, prickles of embarrassment tinging his cheeks. He swiped a hand over his eyes and peeked beneath the blanket. Their legs were tangled together, but they were both fully clothed. Good. Not that he was complaining about waking up with his beautiful girl—no, Belle French in his bed was a sight he would welcome every morning for the rest of his days.

One question remained, however: _what were they doing in his bedroom?_

There had been a storm last night, he remembered that much. Belle's car had broken down nearby and she'd come to his house to wait out the rain. They'd shared a quick soup and sandwich dinner, watched a movie, and succumbed to sleep on the sofa. From that point forward, his mind was a blank slate: he had no memory of coming upstairs and bringing her into his bed. Yet looking at her now, her face flushed from sleep, her long, dark eyelashes shadowing her creamy cheeks, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Gold knew he should rise. Lying half-sprawled prone across Belle's body was rather undignified, but the selfish part of him refused to leave the luxury of her embrace. However, he did need to do something about his breath. He ran his tongue over his teeth, the taste of last night's movie popcorn a sticky film on his tongue. A grin pulled at his mouth—he had spent more time admiring Belle than viewing the movie, her face alight with joy and her gentle laugh filling the room and warming his heart.

"I don't get to watch much television," she had confided, "so this is a treat."

He'd frowned at that comment and silently vowed that he would sit through movies and television shows with her every night for the rest of their lives if it pleased her.

 _Stop._ His brain had already fast-forwarded to forever, but a woman like Belle couldn't be rushed. She had to be wooed and courted properly. He wasn't about to scare her away and lose her like that idiot Sean had. Besides, he was enjoying the slow, easy pace as their relationship unfurled. It had been ages since he had shared witty conversation with another adult who wasn't in his family or the subject of an interview. When was the last time he'd spent time with any woman other than Emma? He loved his family, but he'd been lacking in companionship for too long.

Gold may have been out of practice, but even he knew better than to subject Belle to his morning breath.

He rummaged in the nightstand drawer, fingers hunting for the package of mints he'd been storing there since Henry's last sleepover at his house. They'd spent an over an hour sitting in the dark cracking mints between their teeth, trying to create the elusive spark of light produced by the mixture of sugar crystals and nitrogen. _Thank God for Henry._

He popped a breath mint into his mouth and chewed, the freshness of wintergreen washing away the remnants of last night's popcorn and wine. Unable to resist, he leaned down and feathered a kiss across Belle's shell pink lips.

Her eyes opened, wide and clear.

"You're awake," he blurted stupidly.

"Good morning." She lifted her arms over her head and smiled, a slow, perfect, lazy stretch of her lips that made his heart slam against his ribcage. She was so beautiful, lying there in his bed with her hair spilled over his pillow like a Grecian goddess. Heaven help him, he was a goner.

"Morning," he echoed, his gaze fixed on her mouth as her tongue darted out to lick her lips.

"I taste mint," she accused. She craned her neck and sniffed his mouth, narrowing her eyes. "You wake up with minty fresh breath? Did you sneak out of bed to brush your teeth? Because that's not playing fair."

Sheepishly, he opened his palm to reveal the roll of Breath Savers. "No, I cheated. Henry's mints."

She laughed, soft and throaty. "Are you sharing, cheater?"

"For you?" he teased, "anything."

She giggled and popped the proffered mint into her mouth and crunched on it. Gold's heart fluttered again—Belle ate mints the way he did. Every little detail he uncovered was a delight. Knowing she took her tea with a splash of milk and two sugars, the way she snapped a mint between her teeth, learning that blue and purple were her favorite colors—all the special pieces of Belle that made her a unique and beautiful soul.

Unable to tear his eyes away from her, he absorbed every stretch and sigh until Belle sat up and patted her tousled hair. "What are you staring at? Is my bed-head that bad?" This time her laugh was nervous, reminding him that she was probably feeling as self-conscious as he was.

He swung his gaze around the room, then looked back at her, feeling like an utter fool. Gold knew what he wanted, but their blossoming relationship wasn't just about his desires. His pulse thrummed a nervous beat.

 _What on earth had he said or done last night to coax her upstairs with him and into his bed?_

"Gold?" She picked through her auburn curls with her fingers. "That bad, huh?"

"No, sweetheart. You're lovely. Forgive me for staring but I'm a little surprised. I wondered"—he swallowed heavily—"I can't really remember how we ended up here. The last thing I recall is falling asleep on the couch."

"Oh, that." She shrugged. "You seemed restless and uncomfortable, so I suggested that stretching out in bed would be better. We walked upstairs together and I tucked you in." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "You asked me to stay here. With you."

His mouth dropped open in horror. "I'm sorry, Belle. I hope I didn't...I didn't mean to imply…that is to say, I wasn't myself."

"Please don't apologize," Belle said firmly. "I'm your…I wanted to."

"You're what?"

"Nothing."

"What were you going to say?" he persisted.

"Only that I wouldn't do anything I don't want to do. You didn't force me or make demands. You asked, and I was happy to stay." She glanced down at the bedspread, nervously fiddling with an errant thread of silk, then met his eyes once more. "Lying next to you, holding you…it was the best night of sleep I've had in years."

"Oh, Belle." His chest swelled with happiness and he drew her into his arms. "Me too."

"I'm actually really glad you brought that up, about not remembering what happened last night," Belle said, her voice muffled against his chest. She lifted her chin, her perceptive gaze roving over his face as if searching for answers. "You were having, well, I'm not quite sure how to characterize it. It felt like a nightmare and an anxiety attack at the same time."

Understanding dawned: he'd had an episode, brought on by the storm. They had been routine in the years when he was on location, covering crises and wars, but the attacks had since receded. He hadn't had one in years, not since before he and Neal moved to Storybrooke.

"It happened in the park too, a couple of weeks ago," she reminded him as she stroked his back. "I didn't want to say anything, but I was worried."

Yes, the noise of the crane had startled him and Belle had drawn him out of his panic with her tender touch and sweet kiss. No one had ever done anything like that for him before. Through the years, he had become adept at hiding the attacks from Neal, though of course his son knew about them. Perhaps he should make an appointment with Dr. Hopper to revisit his coping strategies. _No_. Gold shoved the thought away. He didn't want to see a shrink. He wanted to be with Belle and be happy. He wanted, needed, to be strong for them both.

"A touch of anxiety from my time overseas," he explained, easing out of her embrace. "Rarely happens anymore, but loud noises sometimes trigger minor panic attacks. Nothing to worry about."

"You're sure?" Belle probed, her tone gentle. She covered his hand with hers, rubbing their thumbs together in a soothing circular pattern. "You seemed frightened; you called for your son."

"Oh, I was probably dreaming. Dreams have a way of working out my anxieties. He forced a casual smile. "All better now," he said brightly. Thank you for taking such good care of me, sweetheart."

Eager to change the subject, he twined their fingers together and brought her knuckles to his lips for a chivalrous kiss.

"I like taking care of you," she said. "Especially after all the pampering I've received since arriving here last night. Why, Marie Antoinette would be jealous."

"What can I say? I'm a fool for my beautiful girlfriend." He pretended to look under the bed then grinned at her. "There must be some cake around here somewhere."

Belle's jaw slackened and a flush hurried over her face. "What did you say?"

"Cake?" Gold reddened and looked away hastily. Honestly, the _girlfriend_ moniker had just slipped out. He had considered Belle his girl for a while now, but hadn't found the courage to discuss their relationship. Perhaps even now he had spoken too soon.

"I think I need a cup of coffee," he announced, swinging his feet around to the floor and grabbing his cane. He extended his free hand to Belle to help her climb out of bed. "And some breakfast. Would you join me, Belle?"

She smiled and took his offered hand as she stood.

"I would love to."

xoxo

Still clad in Gold's t-shirt and robe, Belle wandered through the dining room and kitchen while he rummaged in the refrigerator for breakfast fixings.

Her clothes from last evening were dry; she had thrown them in Gold's dryer and hung her intimates in the guest bath to air dry. But they were stiff and cold from the rain, and she was so warm and cozy in his things, his musky, fresh scent clinging to everything she wore. Changing into her street clothes now was paramount to breaking a magical spell or awakening from a delicious dream.

Gone were the nerves that plagued her when she'd first appeared on his doorstep in the middle of last night's rainstorm, replaced with contentment, happiness, and a feeling she couldn't quite name. The longer she stayed, the more at home she felt.

The rambling Victorian was relaxed, comfortable, and decidedly unpretentious—nothing at all like the house she shared with her parents. Here, dust was allowed to gather or a book could be left open by the fire. It was an entire house that mirrored her overstuffed room—filled with tchotchkes and welcome clutter, family photos and books. All the things that made it so much more than a house, it was a home.

As she looked around the dining room, Belle caught sight of a dust-covered plaque shoved toward the back of a cabinet. Slack-jawed, she realized it was a Pulitzer Prize. _Wow_ , she mouthed quietly. She swiped the dust from the raised lettering of the large Gold Medal before shifting it back to its hiding place. Belle smiled fondly; Gold was entirely too modest. Emboldened by her newfound positivity, she shuffled back into the kitchen to rejoin him.

He was standing in front of the stove stirring eggs in a pan, and she leaned against the door jab to look her fill. He had discarded his robe; the apron knotted about the lean waist of his black silk pajamas and the boyish tousle of his close-cropped hair decidedly adorable. Belle inhaled deeply; the sweetness of caramelizing onions and the yeasty smell of baking bread sang a seductive symphony.

It was on the tip of her tongue to push him for more details about last night's nightmare, but she decided against saying anything more. If there was anything Belle hated, it was being forced to talk about things she wasn't yet prepared to confront. Erskine—her boyfriend—would divulge more when he was ready.

 _Boyfriend._ True, it had surprised her when he had called her his girlfriend, but she could tell it had surprised him as well. Contrary to her expectations, the label felt good. _Right_. There was no unpleasant rush of anxiety when she whispered the word out loud in the bathroom, no knot of dread coiled in her stomach like when Sean had claimed her as his own. No, this time would be different—it _was_ different because Gold was a real man; kind and chivalrous and intelligent, not a post-pubescent boy who couldn't appreciate a "real" woman with full curves and dimpled thighs.

 _And you think you're a real woman?_

Of course, her old friend Doubt, never content to leave her in peace. _You don't deserve a man like Gold_ , _Big-Belle-y,_ Doubt snarled from the dark corners of her mind.

"Shut up," Belle hissed under her breath.

"Is everything all right, sweetheart?" Gold turned toward her, sliding perfect, golden omelets onto two plates.

"Great." Belle nodded and flopped down at the kitchen table.

"You seem a bit more relaxed at this breakfast than you did at our first," he said, eyes twinkling.

Belle's ears burned, thinking of how klutzy she'd been, dropping her journal open on the floor, and how suspicious she'd been of poor Gold. She had spent that lovely morning wishing for it to be over, and now she regretted not enjoying their "first date." She shrugged her shoulders, silencing Doubt and its companion Regret, and vowed to not to repeat the mistakes of that fateful first breakfast.

"Tea?" Gold's low voice and closeness brought her out of her musings as he leaned down to press a kiss beneath her ear and fill her teacup.

"You have a way of putting me at ease," she admitted, turning her head to press a kiss to his whiskered cheek.

"I make you comfortable?" His smile broadened. "I'm glad to hear it. Try a croissant?" He waved a plate piled high with the butter-laden pastries in front of her nose.

Belle's mouth watered at the heavenly smell. Without granting even a fleeting thought to calories, she plucked a warm croissant off the plate and shoved a large bite into her mouth. Flaky pastry and buttery goodness melted on her tongue, and Belle moaned in ecstasy. "These are incredible. Like eating angel's wings. Did you _make_ these?"

Gold flashed a guilty smile. "No. All I did was warm them in the oven. I order them from a French bakery I frequented when I was in Paris. They've been making them this way for four generations, a closely guarded family recipe. They don't ship product but"—he shrugged—"I'm a very good customer."

"Of course you are," Belle said with a teasing smile.

"Just don't tell Mrs. Lucas, all right? If word gets out, protestors will be marching in front of the _Mirror_ demanding that Granny's receives a splashy and flattering restaurant review." He rolled his eyes. "One bloody time I made a crack about her lasagna and I do believe I'll never hear the end of it."

"Your secret is safe with me," Belle swore, tearing a piece off the croissant and offering it to him.

"Preserves?" he prompted around the mouthful, edging a ruby jar in her direction.

"They don't need a thing. They're perfection." Belle scooped up a steaming bite of eggs flavored with goat cheese and chives, then another.

"I'm glad you're enjoying everything," he said, beaming.

"I am." Belle noticed Gold shoving his eggs around on his plate and frowned. She was shoveling food in her face and he'd scarcely taken a bite. "Aren't you?"

"Belle, about what I said upstairs. Are you comfortable with that?" He picked up his croissant and tore it in half, then dropped it.

Belle set down her fork. "With being your girlfriend?"

He nodded, looking a bit stricken.

 _He meant it. He truly meant it._ Belle's heart leaped with the knowledge that he wanted her, exactly as she was.

"I'm okay with it. More than okay." She reached across the table to grasp his free hand. "Erskine," she whispered, choking on emotion, "you've made me very happy."

"Good. All I want is your happiness, Belle," he said seriously. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and his eyes were moist.

With the matter of their relationship status decided, they spent the next several minutes holding hands and eating in companionable silence, until a sharp knock at the door interrupted their peaceful interlude.

Gold dropped his fork and muttered, "I'll get it."

Belle gingerly sipped her tea as he strode toward the front of the house. The heavy leaded glass door creaked open, and an all-too-familiar voice filled the foyer.

 _Daddy._

Belle's blood ran cold. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at herself in Gold's bathrobe. This didn't look good, and appearances were _everything_. She closed her eyes, praying that Daddy had come alone.

"Ah, visitors," Belle heard Gold say. _No such luck._ She hovered in the kitchen doorway as Gold stepped back to admit Daddy and Edith, who elbowed her way past her father. "You must be Mr. and Mrs. French."

"Good guess," Edith bit out, clutching her purse against her side. She was perfectly coiffed, dressed in a clinging navy dress, and the sickly sweet smell of her perfume overwhelmed the entryway.

"Proper introductions are tradition," Gold chided. "Among civilized people, that is. I'm Gold." He held out his hand and Edith stared at it like he'd contracted leprosy en route to the door. Nonplussed, he turned to Maurice, who had the grace to pump Gold's hand once, earning him a nasty glare from his wife.

 _So rude._ Belle wanted to expire on the spot. Biting back a gag, she steeled herself for the approaching confrontation.

"We know who you are. Where is Belle?" Edith demanded.

Hearing her name— _why else would they be making a social call at nine o' clock in the morning?—_ Belle hurried the rest of the way to the door. She positioned herself next to Gold, drawing strength from his confident posture.

"Daddy, Edith, I'm here." Belle cut her gaze guiltily toward the den where her dead cell phone lay forgotten at the bottom of her handbag.

"Belle and I were just enjoying breakfast," Gold said pleasantly. "May I offer you a croissant?"

Edith wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"No? Perhaps coffee then?" He looked back and forth between her parents.

Belle inhaled sharply, willing them to respond.

"I would love a croissant," Moe piped up.

"We're not staying," Edith cut in icily, then jabbed her elbow into Moe's rounded stomach. "And neither is Belle. Get your things, dear. And change out of that gentleman's robe into some decent clothes."

"No," someone said in a bold, authoritative tone. It took Belle a moment to realize the voice had been hers.

"Excuse me?" Edith pursed her lips.

"I said no," Belle threw her shoulders back and drew up to her full five-foot one-inch height. "Gold and I are having breakfast. I'll be home when I'm finished."

Edith sucked in her cheeks like a fish; she didn't seem to know what to do with this information. "What about your car?"

"I'll call for a tow," Belle said. "I would have last night but with the weather so terrible, no one was going to come out and rescue me. Then my phone died."

"And that's exactly why you need us, Belle," Edith clucked. "Your poor judgement is constantly getting you into scrapes. Has ever since you were a little girl. Remember the time your bike had a flat tire? Instead of walking it home you propped it against a tree and left it behind. We never saw it again!"

Belle sneaked a look at Gold, gauging his reaction to this ridiculous family drama, but his face was closed, impassive.

"It's my life, Edith," she said in a quavering voice.

"That it is." Her stepmother nodded briskly and raked her cold gaze over Belle's body. "And you're determined, it seems, to make poor choices."

Belle pressed her lips together, fighting against tears. Edith was blowing this entire situation out of proportion. She wanted to scream that she hadn't done anything except accept some harmless hospitality, sleep in Gold's arms, and eat a freaking pastry, but she wasn't a child. She refused to explain her actions or decisions or make excuses for her boyfriend. "That's not fair. I'm a grown woman. I decide how I spend my time and who I spend it with."

"Coming to a safe place to seek shelter from a storm isn't a poor choice," Gold interrupted. Belle felt him step behind her and rest his hands on her shoulders. "Belle did a brave thing."

"Fairness is an interesting concept," Edith continued, ignoring Gold's comments. "Most of the time, Belle, we leave you to your own devices to hole up in your room to read your books and flip through decorating magazines and scribble in that journal of yours—but a courtesy call to let your family know you're all right is hardly setting high expectations. One might even say it's the _fair_ thing to do."

Belle swung her eyes to Daddy, but he was eyeing the floor and toeing at a scuff mark on the floor. She sighed in defeat; there would be no help from that quarter.

"Mr. and Mrs. French, my breakfast is getting cold," Gold said. His tone had switched from cordial to businesslike in the blink of an eye, slicing through the tense atmosphere. "I would like to return to my meal. You are welcome to join Belle and me, however, I must insist we continue this discussion in the dining room." He gestured broadly, the invitation punctuated by a small bow.

Beyond the twitch of her jaw, Edith didn't move a muscle. Moe twisted his fingers in front of his paunch, a sheepish look crossing his bloated features, while Edith's face was set in a line of indignant refusal.

Belle smothered a hysterical laugh. Here was Gold, behaving like a perfect gentleman, when he had every right to toss her parents out on the street.

"Daddy, Edith. I am sorry I didn't call last night. But as you can see, I'm perfectly fine." Belle's stomach pitched and roiled with nerves, but she held onto her dignity. "I will finish my breakfast and dress, and Gold will bring me home. You know your way out?"

She gestured toward the door and without waiting for a response, Belle spun on her heel and returned to the kitchen.

###


	11. Rumors

Summary: Belle deals with the fallout of her impromptu overnight stay at Gold's house when rumors about the town's newest couple begin to circulate.

A/N: Beastlycheese prompted: "Could I prompt a scene where they deal with the abuse because of their size differences?" This is my first time writing from Marco's viewpoint.

 _"Judge tenderly, if you must. There is usually a side you have not heard, a story you know nothing about, and a battle waged that you are not having to fight." ― Traci Lea LaRussa_

Marco tossed fresh zucchini slices into a sizzling sauté pan and inhaled deeply. Was there a more comforting aroma in all the world than that of hot olive oil and garlic melting together? _Bellissima!_ With a contented hum, he swiveled back to the cutting board to chop the rest of the vegetables for his lasagna bianca. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. _Madonna mia_ , it was two o'clock already! He rocked the knife against the board faster; he needed to hurry if he was going to have this batch ready in time for tonight's first dinner reservations.

As he finished chopping the peppers, agitated footfalls sounded outside the door. Belle stormed into the kitchen, shoving the swinging kitchen door against the wall with a crash. Surprised to see her in the middle of the afternoon, Marco wiped his hands on his apron. " _Buona giornata_ , Bella," he greeted, then snapped his mouth shut at the mutinous expression on his sweet girl's face.

"What's so good about it?" She brushed past him and ducked into the refrigerator, emerging with the cassata cake he had prepared for tonight's dessert special.

He watched her cut a large wedge and stomp to the booth in the back corner of the kitchen reserved for his staff to eat during their breaks. She plunked her slab of cake down on the table. Eyebrows raised, two of his waiters scurried out of her way, carrying their spaghetti lunches out the back door. He would have chuckled at their befuddled expressions, had Belle not looked so devastated. Her brow furrowed, marring her dewy skin as she glared at the cake in front of her.

"Something wrong, Bella?" He set down the chef's knife and took a hesitant step in her direction. "You're chasing my staff away."

"I chase everyone away," she said, chin wobbling as she rifled through bins of cutlery looking for a fork.

"Ridiculous." He clucked at her, then brought over a fresh set of utensils and a starched napkin. "Anyone with any sense adores you. Is it Edith?"

"For once, she's at the bottom half of my list of problems," Belle shot back, then pressed her lips together as if she'd said too much.

" _Che cavolo_! What problems?" he asked, growing alarmed at the anguish in her voice.

"It's nothing." She smoothed the napkin over her lap, refusing to meet his eyes. "Don't worry. Besides, I don't want to talk about it."

"Not Signore Gold?" Marco clenched a dishtowel. He liked Gold, thought he was a wonderful match for his sweet girl, but if Gold hurt his Bella, he would summon his ancestors to haunt the man's dreams for the rest of his earthly days.

"No," she said, her expression softening as tears filled her eyes. "It's not Gold. And don't go dragging him into all this!"

"Into all what? You say it's nothing." He shrugged, offended that Bella would think he couldn't be trusted with a secret. He was no _chiacchierone, but he didn't object to employing a little well-meaning guilt. He was Italian, after all._ "I'm just an old man who makes pasta. Who am I to get involved in your love life?"

"I mean it, Marco." Belle suspended her fork in midair. "Don't call him."

Anger bubbled under his skin, not unlike the spicy marinara simmering on the stove. Everything had been going so well. Bella was surely, albeit slowly, finding love and building a future. But now she was once again closing herself off to the world for reasons she wouldn't tell him. She needed the comfort and confidence of his friendship more than ever. Friendship…of course! He nearly smacked himself for being such an old fool.

"I promise not to call Signore Gold," he said, crossing himself. And he meant it. He wouldn't call Gold. He would call Emma. And then _she_ could call Gold. There was more than one way to skin a cat, _si?_

"Please, Marco, I know you want to help. Could you just leave me alone for a little while, though?" Belle begged.

Her voice was hoarse and her eyes red-rimmed, like she would burst into tears at any moment. Marco struggled between what she wanted and what was best: being alone was the last thing she needed. That was Belle's entire problem—she internalized every struggle, and hid herself away from other people. Then, alone in the dark, she consumed her demons' weight in fudge instead of facing them.

" _Si."_ Marco nodded solemnly, and stepped quietly back from the table. Leaving Belle to her own counsel for the time being, he scurried out of the kitchen to the telephone behind the bar. He punched in the number for the _Storybrooke Mirror_ , hoping that Emma would answer instead of Gold.

"Bella, she stormed into the restaurant and cut herself a _fettona_ of cake," Marco confided when Emma answered his call.

"Fettona?" Emma paused on the line. "Is that a new flavor or something?"

"No. _Come si dice_...how do you say in English?" He gesticulated wildly, not that Emma could see his arms waving as he searched for the words. "Ah! Big piece of cake."

"Oh! Yeah, I think I know what this is about," Emma said. "And I can feel you wringing your hands. Don't worry. I'll be right there."

Groaning, Marco hung up the phone and mopped beads of sweat off his brow with the corner of his apron. Turning out perfectly al dente pasta creations during the dinner rush was nothing compared to this stress.

xoxo

Her stomach tightening, Belle toyed with a sliver of toasted almond on top of her cake. Everyone knew they were a couple now, and it was only a matter of time before Gold thought better of his decision to get involved with Belle French. _Nice going, Belle._ In less than forty-eight hours, she had lost her shiny new status as Gold's girlfriend. She poked and prodded the offending morsel as her mind played the events of the past days on a sadistic loop.

The visit to Gold's had been idyllic, until her father and Edith had arrived to humiliate her. After their abrupt departure, she and Gold had managed to salvage the rest of their morning together, finishing their breakfast without another mention of her parents.

Had the mechanic at the garage looked at her strangely? All Belle knew was that everything had been fine—until yesterday when she'd picked up her car and gone back to work.

Word of Belle's overnight visit to Mr. Gold's home had spread faster than the oil leak the garage had discovered beneath her broken-down car. How and where the rumors started didn't really matter; from the sidewalk to the library to Granny's, everyone stared at her and spoke in hushed tones. Since she'd arrived at work yesterday, her brain had tortured her with round after round of the dreaded game _Guess What Is Everyone Saying?_

 _"Did you hear that Belle French is sleeping with Mr. Gold from the newspaper? Yes! He's more than twice her age. I knew she didn't get along with her stepmother, but I didn't realize she wanted to replace her father…that's so creepy!"_

 _"I wonder if such a little man could actually please a woman her size? You know they do say the bigger the cushion. I'll bet he needs climbing gear to get up there!"_

 _"What if she rolls over and crushes him in bed?"_

Less than twenty-four hours after an innocent overnight stay, their fledgling relationship had become everyone's business, if not in fact, then in her overwrought imagination. Fresh tears filled her eyes and she dropped her fork and buried her head in her hands.

The argument in Gold's foyer with Edith. The deafening silence from her father. While she'd been with Gold, Edith had rifled through her room again. She hadn't said anything to give herself away, but Belle had known by the subtle way her things were shifted around. Edith was a sloppy snooper. But that wasn't the worst of it. Yesterday afternoon she'd escaped the library to eat a quiet lunch at Granny's and come face-to-face with one of least favorite people.

 _When Belle looked up from her tuna melt and her dog-eared copy of_ Pride and Prejudice _, Ashley Boyd, Sean's girlfriend, was sliding into the seat across the booth. She frowned down at Belle's basket of fries and wrinkled her nose. "Wow, Belle. How do you do it?"_

 _"Excuse me?" Belle asked, annoyed by the interruption. Mr. Darcy was about to propose to Elizabeth Bennet for the first time and she was in no mood for pleasantries._

 _"How do you eat all that? I can't eat a huge, sandwich filled with mayo and butter and cheese in the middle of the day."_

 _"Special talent," Belle snapped back. "Pairs really well with the fried ravioli I had for breakfast."_

 _"It's not only that," Ashley simpered. "I mean, you're so brave...dating a guy that's thinner than you. Thank God Sean can span my waist with his hands. I wish I had your courage, hon."_

 _"I wish I had yours," Belle replied sweetly._

 _"Oh yeah?" Ashley looked confused._

 _"To date a guy another woman's already dumped. Now that takes moxy. As you can plainly see," Belle gestured at herself, "the only seconds I like are the ones on my plate."_

 _Ashley stiffened, her eyes turning as cold as ice chips when it dawned on her that she'd been insulted._

Belle's face had burned as Ashley stalked away, but her embarrassment was trumped by the satisfaction of finding her voice when confronted with someone horrible. _I should not have said those things._ She sighed—yesterday she'd managed to send doubt and regret on a brief holiday. Now they were back, and guilt had joined the party.

Then there was the scene she made at the library this morning.

Cordelia had pounced while Belle was trying to unload a shipment of new books before story hour. Bless her heart, she was positively effervescent—bubbling over about how handsome Mr. Gold is and pumping her for details on everything from their dinner to the movie they watched to what color and thread count the sheets were on Gold's bed. Busy hefting crates of books and only half listening, Belle had grunted monosyllabic replies until Cordelia announced that if she were twenty years younger she would steal Gold away from Belle and marry him.

That had captured her attention.

"What do you mean, steal him away?" Seething, Belle rounded on Cordelia, her hands on her hips. Sweat was trickling down her back and between her breasts and her lungs were burning with exertion. She needed a snowball snack cake more than she needed her next breath, but she wasn't letting that comment go.

Cordelia's eyes widened. "Well, that is…I meant to say…if you don't want him, dear…"

"You can keep your man-eating clutches to yourself. Gold is mine!" Belle bellowed at the top of her lungs.

Everyone in the library had turned to gawk at her, no doubt wondering why the head librarian was screaming at her assistant during quiet time.

It was simply all too much. She had ignored Cordelia's sputtering apology, ripped open a packet of snowballs, shoved one in her mouth, and stomped back to her office.

If the rest of the town didn't already know about Belle French dating Mr. Gold, well, they would now. It would be even more humiliating when he broke up with her for subjecting him to public embarrassment.

Belle startled when Emma Cassidy appeared at the kitchen door, forcing her out of her thoughts. She crossed her arms over her chest and arranged her face in a severe frown that she hoped said Do Not Disturb.

Failing to take the hint, Emma plopped down with her typical casual grace. She looked adorable in ripped jeans and a turquoise hoodie that brought out her green eyes.

Belle sighed, "Can no one read?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Next time she wanted to hide in the back of the restaurant and eat all the cake, she would tell Marco not to let anyone disturb her. "I don't think I'm great company right now, Emma."

"Let me be the judge," she said pleasantly, propping her elbows up on the table. "Your face is gonna freeze like that if you aren't careful. So what's up?"

Apparently no one could read _or_ hear.

Belle dragged the plate of cake back into fork's reach. "I already told you—nothing."

"Likely story." Emma pointed at the slab of cassata cake. "Do you really want that?"

Belle snatched up her fork and pointed it at a threatening angle. "Now you're going to start on me too?"

"Nope." Emma held up her hands, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Guilt trips aren't my style."

"You don't have to do this. Pretend to be my friend." Belle didn't need or want Emma's pity. She certainly didn't need her judgment, or her well-intentioned-yet-insulting encouragement to make healthier choices.

The blood drained from Emma's face and she sank back against the bench. "Oh, I see. You think this is all about you."

"What?"

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I want to be your friend? That maybe I need one too? Look, forget it. I'll go." Visibly upset, Emma stood, struggling to shrug her jacket over her shoulders.

"Wait. Emma, please. I-I'm sorry." Belle shoved the cake back to the center of the table. "Stay. I have cake," she offered stupidly.

"You know, Belle," Emma said, "that day we went shopping? I had so much fun. I thought you did too, and I was so happy to just spend some time doing, ya know, girl things." Emma grew uncharacteristically sheepish as she played with the zipper on her red leather jacket. "I don't have that—lots of friends. Sure, I have Neal, and Henry, and Dad, uh, Gold… but no one I can just grab coffee with or whine about periods or anything like that." She smiled wistfully.

Belle felt the flush of shame overtake her face as she rose from the booth. Walking over to Emma, she placed a tentative hand on her arm.

"Emma, I am truly sorry," Belle said in earnest. "You're right, I was being selfish. You've been wonderful to me; your whole family has. I'm honored that you would call me a friend." Smiling, Belle gestured to the booth. "I _could_ use a friend to talk to and a cake-eating partner. Join me, please?"

Emma smiled broadly and tossed her jacket back on the bench, eyeing the cake. "Looks delicious. Besides, friends don't let friends scarf Marco's signature dessert alone. Got an extra fork?"

Relieved, Belle handed her the spoon from her cutlery set. "We may as well eat it all. I'm already out of Gold's weight class."

"It's not a wrestling match, it's a relationship!" Emma murmured around a mouthful. "Belle, ignore whatever crap that airhead Ashley was spouting and anyone else around town who's blabbering. They're jealous."

"Ha! Jealous of what?" Belle dug into the cake and the smooth flavors and textures of rum-spiked custard, fluffy white cake, and chocolate filled her mouth. _Why question people and their motivations when you could eat?_

"Are you kidding? _No one_ knows what to do with Dad. Beyond the business of running his newspaper, he keeps to himself besides you and us." Emma dropped her voice and wiggled her eyebrows. "You've been in the beast's lair."

Belle choked. "You did not just say that."

"He's so love-struck, you could strike a match to that ghastly mausoleum he calls a house and he'd probably thank you for it…wow, this cake is fantastic!" She turned around, looking for Marco, who was busy chopping and stirring, he and his sous chef speaking to one another in rapid-fire Italian. "Marco, what is _in_ this?"

"Special, secret recipe," he said, dramatically drawing his finger to his lips.

Belle rolled her eyes, and when she turned back to Emma she was grinning. "What?"

"Wipe the frosting off your nose, Belle," she said, tossing her a clean napkin. "Your white knight has arrived."

At once, Belle heard the familiar cadence of Gold's cane tapping against the tile and shot Marco an accusing look. He looked down in a rush, pretending to busy himself by slicing a loaf of ciabatta bread.

"Before you freak out and shout at Marco, I'm the one who called Gold," Emma admitted, sliding out of her seat to make way for him. Pulling on her jacket, she smiled brightly as she turned to leave. "Just no make-up sex on the table, okay guys? You don't want to shut Marco down for code violations." She laughed as she scurried from the kitchen.

Gold shook his head at his daughter-in-law's retreating form. "I don't know if I could put up with her if she weren't so perfect for my son," he quipped, sliding into the booth.

Belle stared at the vinyl gingham-printed tablecloth as Gold reached across the table for her hand. She was finding it nearly impossible to look him in the eyes, frightened that she would find only regret in their warm depths.

"Gold, I'm so, so sorry." Belle trembled as she tried to get the words out.

"Belle, hey." He pulled his hand back in confusion. "Talk to me," he urged.

She pushed the cake aside, no longer hungry. The way his brow furrowed in concern clenched at her heart, squeezing until Belle lost control and tears began to stream down her face.

Wordlessly, Gold slid out from the opposite bench at the booth, and Belle was certain he was about to leave, but he edged in closer, settling himself beside her so they sat thigh-to-thigh.

Belle caught her breath. Being this close to him made her nerve endings trip like live wire. Here he was, dashingly dressed in his signature three piece suit, not a hair out of place, and smelling bloody fantastic. She lifted her face to his and attempted a brave smile, but faltered when she met his piercing gaze. He stared at her intently, searching her soul, and she was mesmerized by the tenderness in his eyes. Mercy, had they always been flecked with amber?

It wasn't fair; he was completely at ease while she practically needed life support to sit next to him.

His lip twisted as he fought a smile. "So you broke Leroy's Kline's nose. Threw a book at his head."

"Heard about that did you?" she said feebly.

"The library _is_ right across the street from the paper." He grinned, his white teeth flashing. "A bystander or two might have called in with an anonymous tip in the name of free press."

"He was mean to you," she reasoned, her neck prickling with renewed fury. "Calling you a hack. Saying that I was an awful person for…" Belle swallowed. "I didn't mean to break anything, but I suppose _War and Peace_ is rather a heavy book."

"Is that why you're hiding from me, sweetheart?" He covered her hand with his. "Because of Leroy?"

Belle looked down. She didn't have an answer. Not a good one, anyway. "Among other things," she evaded. "You wouldn't understand."

A sweet smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Try me."

She shook her head. "No one wants to see us together."

"I don't think that's true," he said calmly.

Incredulous, she stared at him. "Haven't you heard? The things people are saying," she clarified.

Before she could explain further, Gold's warm, slightly calloused hand closed around the back of her neck, his long, elegant fingers catching a few locks of hair. He hauled her into his arms with a strength that caused a gasp to slip from her lips. Before she could draw breath, his mouth was covering hers, his warm lips gently massaging, tongue teasing her lips apart in a bid for entrance. Helpless to deny him anything, Belle sighed softly and opened like a flower thirsty for rain. The kiss was deep, passionate, and Belle paid no mind to the waiters coming and going through the kitchen, or to Marco or the sous chef stirring at the stove.

He pulled away, cradling her jaw in the palm of his hand. "Sweetheart, do you remember the day we met?"

###

Italian Word Guide:

 _chiacchierone = blabbermouth_

 _che cavalo = what the hell_

 _fettona = big piece_

cassata = Italian creme cake  
Madonna mia = Oh Virgin Mary


	12. Reflections

Summary: Belle and Gold are still sitting in Marco's kitchen, and Gold reminds Belle of the day they met.

A/N: Chapter 12 continues directly from Chapter 11. Filling two prompts with this chapter. Yay! RowofStars prompted: Flashback to the first time AOM Gold and Belle met. Did the sparks fly? Was it love or lust at first sight? Did Henry awkwardly ruin the moment? Bookwormchocaholic prompted: I would like to prompt an AOM fic of Belle and Gold's introduction.

 _It is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being. – John Joseph Powell_

 ** _Marco's Cucina, Present Day_**

Gold broke the kiss, and Belle's nose grazed his bottom lip as she lowered her head to rest on his shoulder. She sighed aloud, her warm breath fanning the side of his neck and he gave an involuntary shiver of happiness.

The clang of pots and pans alerted him that he was kissing his girlfriend in the back corner of a hectic restaurant kitchen, and that Marco and his staff were gawking at them snuggled together in this oversized booth. He didn't care. All that mattered in this moment was Belle.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled lazily, and he cupped her cheek with his hand. Her eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide with passion. Her hands were clasped around his neck, the pleasing weight of her soft arms across his shoulders, her breath ragged and sweet against his face.

"Sweetheart, do you remember the day we met?" he asked.

"Nope. Can't think…a little dizzy."

Gold snickered around a surge of masculine pride. What a treasure she was! Had he ever met a woman so guileless? No, the women of his acquaintance through the years had been artificial and interested in him for the publicity they could earn for their business ventures and personal causes. He was full of love, but who beyond his family had ever looked past his small stature, his limp, and his notoriety as a reporter to see his heart? Only Belle. She was as undone by their kisses as he was. Elated as he was to have this effect on the woman he cared for, his heart broke at how grateful she was for the smallest expressions of affection.

Her hazy eyes cleared, sharpening and focusing on him once more, but now sadness was reflected in those sea-blue pools. _Sadness caused by nosy townspeople who needed to be tripped by a cane_ , he thought ruefully. He kept his hand on her face, caressing her jawline with his thumb. He longed to chase those shadows away.

"Seriously," he prompted, eager to distract her from the two days of gossip and insults she'd endured for his sake. "The day we met."

"Seriously?" She chewed her lip. "Yes, I think I remember. It was in the library, right?"

Gold frowned; it stung a bit that she didn't share the same vivid memory of their first meeting. Perhaps those initial moments between them didn't make the same impression on her as they had on him?

 _Oh well. In for a penny, as it were._ "May I tell you how I remember it?"

She tilted her head and smiled. "I would like that very much."

Gold cleared his throat. "Henry had just turned two years old, and Emma suggested I bring him your story time…"

xoxo

 ** _Three Years Earlier_**

After a year of careful avoidance, Gold had a reason to visit the library.

He gave his shoulder length brown hair a self-conscious pat and hoisted Henry higher on his hip as he strode through the library in search of the restroom. Storybrooke Library's weekly story hour for toddlers was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes, and young Henry needed a quick diaper change before settling in with the other children.

As he reached the back wall of the building, Gold overheard voices. He grit his teeth; Sean Herman, Belle French's fiancé, was in her office and the two were discussing something in hushed, urgent tones. Gold lingered near the door with the ready excuse that he wanted to introduce Belle to Henry, attempting his best expression of nonchalance. Herman leaned in close to kiss Belle's cheek, and he felt a stab of jealousy toward the overgrown toddler who had won the heart of this lovely, vivacious woman. He couldn't place what it was that irked him about Herman. Gold only knew that when her fiancé was present, Belle's smile never quite reached her eyes.

Belle had recently won the position of head librarian, replacing Mrs. Schmidt when she'd retired to care for her grandchildren. He had seen Belle in passing many times—on the street, in the drugstore, at the supermarket—but had never actually spoken to her. It was better this way, he told himself. Belle was engaged to another man and that meant she was off-limits.

The first time he'd seen her had been a year earlier. Belle was squatting on the floor of the library knocking over block towers with a gaggle of children who laughed uproariously at every move she made. On his way to the paper, he walked by the large front window and she looked up as he passed, her countenance sparkling with mirth, reddish brown curls falling in a fiery halo around her flushed face. Their gazes met, and he died and was reborn in her laughing eyes. _Good Lord, she was a vision!_ It was far more than her beauty that captivated him, though. This young woman had a lively spirit and a generous heart—he could tell by the humble ease with which she played with the children. Too stunned to do anything more than hurry by, he raced toward his office, determined to learn her name.

Arriving back at his desk, Gold ruffled through the stacks of press releases and notices from the town's administrative offices, hoping to find anything that mentioned a new hire at the Storybrooke Public Library. Finding nothing, he slumped in his chair, an uncharacteristic feeling of defeat churning in his gut. _Think, old man._ Gold had little use for his investigative reporting skills now that he was at home in Storybrooke and running the town ledger, but his curious attraction to the woman in the window reignited those embers long since cooled.

 _Ah!_ Inspiration struck, and after half an hour of combing through the Town Council minutes which the mayor so diligently provided after each meeting, the passage he had been seeking was there, smudged in black ink:

 _"The motion passes, Belle French will fill the role of Assistant Library Director effective the first of next month at a salary of {redacted}."_

Belle French. Beautiful, smart, sweet Belle.

Gold raked his fingers through his hair nervously, like a child who had learned a secret he couldn't keep. _Now what?_

After that he looked for her around town, listening for her name to come up in conversation, anxious for another glimpse into those fathomless blue eyes. A week later, he was at Granny's Diner finishing a turkey club sandwich while he worked up the courage to go inside the library to meet her. He tapped his foot impatiently at the cash register. Waiting for waitress Ruby Lucas to stop flirting with town shrink Archie Hopper so he could pay the bill was like waiting for the sky to fall. When he was about to tell Ruby to send the tab to the paper he overheard someone say:

"Wow. Belle French accepted Sean Herman's marriage proposal?"

Gold sucked in a breath, feeling like he'd been punched. Belle was engaged? It figured—the first woman he'd met in twenty-odd years that piqued his interest and she was taken. Then and there he vowed not to visit the library at all for any reason. Why torture himself by skulking around a woman he could never have? He had his pride; he didn't need to borrow a book that badly!

And that's how it came to be that Gold hadn't darkened the door of Storybrooke Community Library since Belle French had come to work there. Now, however, there was young Henry to think of—no child should be deprived of story time at the library. Emma had suggested that library visits with Henry would be good bonding, and Gold agreed. And if he could gawk at Belle French in the process, who was he to argue? He was doing his grandfatherly duty, Gold reasoned, as he tossed the old diaper, washed his and Henry's hands, and exited the bathroom.

They edged by Belle's office door again and he couldn't resist another peek inside. Herman was still there, hands on his designer-denim clad hips, and Belle's cheekbones were bright with color. Gold caught her gaze and held it for a long moment. He didn't know her at all, but those eyes were an open book if you cared to study the language. He read uncertainty there, and fear. He was almost certain Herman was responsible, and Gold's anger swelled like a rising tide in a hurricane.

"Book! Book! Book!" Henry bellowed, jabbing his little fingers at the shelves teeming with colorful children's books.

"Shhh! Henry." Gold held a finger to his lips and scooped up the toddler. Stealth was impossible when Henry was present. "We must be quiet in the library. You'll get Grandpa in trouble if you keep yelling."

The boy grinned broadly, his chubby cheeks rosy with the excitement of a new adventure. "Gampa tubble."

Herman slid through Belle's office door, darting a curious glance at Henry. _Like a snake._ Gold scowled darkly, white-knuckling the head of his cane. He may be holding a toddler in his arms and have a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and be half in love with an engaged woman he had never spoken to, but he was still a man to be respected and feared. Yes, he would be watching Sean Herman.

"Can I help you?" A soft voice beckoned, calling him away from staring down Herman's retreating back.

He spun around, coming face to face with Belle French. "Ah, yes, um, I am Mr. Gold," he said shakily, feeling his cheeks redden.

She rose from her desk, smoothing her hands over a simple navy sheath dress that accentuated her eyes. They sparkled with curiosity as she moved toward him with an outstretched hand.

"I'm Belle French," she offered. "Welcome to my library." A smile that could eclipse the sun stretched across her perfect face.

Gold stared at her hand as it hung in the air, and he briefly considered whether to drop his cane or his grandson for the chance to feel her skin against his. Belle dropped her hand, apparently realizing the awkwardness of a handshake with a man who most certainly had his full.

"Oh, sorry!" Belle giggled, and Gold almost gasped aloud; a sweeter sound he had never heard. "And who is this?" She reached out and tugged at Henry's tiny sneaker where it dangled around Gold's hip, pulling a chortle from the young boy.

"This is Henry Cassidy, my grandson," he said proudly.

"Lovely to meet you, Henry."

Henry reached into his pocket and offered Belle a handful of shredded pieces of _The Storybrooke Mirror_. "Money!" He grinned at Belle who beamed right back.

"Thank you very much," she said, accepting the sticky wad of crumpled paper. "What shall we buy?"

"Oh, Henry, no, son," Gold interrupted with an anxious glance at Belle. "That's newspaper, not money. My apologies, Miss French."

"That's all right. Henry has a wonderful imagination," Belle complimented as Gold set Henry on the floor. Belle squatted down so she was eye-to-eye with his grandson. "Henry, are you ready to listen to Miss Belle read some special books just for you?"

"Book!" Henry shouted again.

xoxo

 ** _Still Three Years Earlier_**

Belle made her way to the corner rocking chair on wooden legs and plopped down heavily, anxious to begin the story hour. She'd barely made it through that encounter without fainting. _Mr. Gold? Here at Storybrooke Community Library?_ And he'd been hovering in her office doorway while she'd been arguing with Sean.

Nerves coiled in her belly like a snake. Mr. Gold didn't think much of her library, for why else would he so studiously avoid it? _Didn't everyone like books?_ Or perhaps this small town library didn't meet his Pulitzer-Prize-winning approval.

Belle sniffed and pressed her lips together. No doubt Gold possessed both the knowledge and the wealth to stock a home library grander than this old place with its leaking walls and meagre collection. However, he _had_ brought his young grandson Henry in, so that was a point in her favor. Most children loved her story hour and their parents always praised her reading. After each story time, Belle would mingle with the moms and dads as they gathered their children and all the stuff children seemed to travel with. She loved these casual exchanges, relishing the opportunity to learn bits and pieces about her patrons; who worked where and who belonged to whom. The library was the only place in the world that she truly felt at home.

But what were her storytelling abilities compared to Mr. Gold's? Mr. Gold, who had earned a reputation as a world-famous reporter. Mr. Gold, who spoke in a beautiful, hypnotic brogue. Perhaps she should invite Mr. Gold to take over and she could head back to her office and crawl under the desk for a marathon powdered doughnut eating session.

To her knowledge, Gold had not come into the library since she'd worked here. _Unless he purposely visited on her days off. Of course! How could she forget? She was the reason he never came in._

It was here first week on the job; she was fresh out of college and thrilled to be hired as Mrs. Schmidt's assistant. (So few graduates of Storybrooke College had the opportunity to use their degree locally, and besides, the less time she spent at home with Edith, the less miserable they all were.) She'd been razing block towers with some kids when Mr. Gold—the newspaperman—had strode by in one of his elegant bespoke suits. He glanced through the front window and their eyes had met. Through the glass, his deep caramel gaze scorched her skin, and she'd trembled deliciously under his perusal. But then he had frowned and hurried toward the newspaper. Yes, he'd taken one look at her and beat a quick path to his office door without so much as a backward glance.

Shaking the memory from her mind, Belle straightened her slumped shoulders; her sour disposition was threatening to spoil the day. If she wasn't careful, the children would catch wind of her annoyance and ask questions. Perceptive creatures, toddlers were.

Her hands shook so hard that she dropped one of the books, its title blurring before her eyes. She smoothed her pudgy, damp fingers over her skirt and bent down to pick it up, feeling Mr. Gold's gaze on her the entire time.

 _Curse him and those beautiful sable eyes._ Most of the time she observed him from across the street or peered at him through a crowded restaurant thick with voices, but he was even more attractive up close. A firm mouth, soft brown hair streaked with grey curling over his collar in locks so thick she could lose her fingers in it, an aquiline nose…and those hands. Long, thin fingers that grasped his cane as he walked, that fiddled with Henry's shoelaces as he placed his young grandson in the circle and instructed him to sit down begin the story. "Sit criss-cross applesauce, Henry," she heard him say, his thick brogue melodious even in a whisper. A flush of awareness creeped up Belle's chest.

It crossed her mind to regret her engagement to Sean, then she snorted aloud at her own absurdity. Like Sarah, Abraham's wife in the Bible who was promised a child at one hundred years old, anything between her and Mr. Gold was impossible. As if such a distinguished man would ever look her way with anything more than casual disinterest!

 _You're lucky to have Sean, Belle,_ she reminded herself in her sternest Edith-tone, pushing their fight about the bachelor party out of her head. Twenty-three bright little faces stared up at her, the children's little limbs flailing as they squirmed on their carpet squares.

 _For goodness sake, Belle! Stop moping and read!_ She launched headlong into the first book, _Hooray for Fish,_ its bold illustrations ideal for holding the attention of little ones. Belle only prayed they would hold hers as well.

"Miss Belle?" It was three-year-old Scarlett Jones, her dark pigtails swinging as she raised her hand.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

She pointed her finger at her tiny chest chest. "You forgot about names."

"So I did," Belle conceded with a nervous laugh. Usually she began story hour with a name game to relax the kids and prepare their minds. She glanced up at Mr. Gold, who leaned against the wall near the beanbag chairs. To her surprise, he gave her a smile and a nod of encouragement. Grateful tears sprang to her eyes and she took a deep breath and started again.

The rest of the hour progressed without incident, and after rounding out story hour with _Breathe,_ Belle led the kids in some deep breathing exercises of their own, calming her own battered nerves.

Soon the children scattered to look for books and play with toys. As Belle checked out books and chatted with parents, she watched Gold and Henry out of the corner of her eye. Despite his reputation as a ruthless reporter, she marveled that anyone could find Gold severe or frightening in the slightest. He was sitting on the floor in his striped socks racing cars, making delightfully realistic "zoom zoom" noises. Henry's dark eyes were bright with merriment as he watched his grandpa at play.

When the last of the parents and children left, Belle began to clean up. Squatting to gather the toys and crayons from the floor, she was startled when Mr. Gold bent down to hand her the plastic crayon box. Leaving Henry to smash a handful of toy cars together, he began to follow her around, picking up stray books off reading tables and handing them to her.

"You're making my job easy today," she said, glancing toward the book carts that were stationed around the library.

"I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've ever been accused of that, Miss French," he said dryly.

Belle's fingers shook as he handed her a book. _Stop it, Belle, you're a librarian. People hand you books every day._ But none of them were the handsome, enigmatic Mr. Gold. Their fingers brushed and the contact seared her flesh, sending a current of electricity up her arm.

She returned to the circulation desk, her palms sweaty from the prolonged exposure to Mr. Gold. Now she understood, she could commiserate with the townspeople who feared him – minutes in his presence had left Belle trembling like a leaf in an autumn windstorm. But it was not fear, not even trepidation, that made her nerves twitch and her insides melt like butter. No, it was something altogether glorious—if not impossible and incomprehensible.

No one had ever made her feel this way, not even her own fiancé. She was confused yet grounded, and more alive than she had ever been in her whole life.

 _Work. Work would settle her anxieties_. Belle moved behind the circulation counter to inventory returns, but when she looked up, Mr. Gold and Henry were approaching again. With a sheepish smile, Gold plopped a stack of books on the counter—as though he had stumbled upon some lost secret place that gave out books for free.

"Oh, this is a really good one!" Belle exclaimed as she scanned the barcodes into the computer. "It's actually much better than his first book, although that's the one that earns all the fanfare." She smiled at Gold as she stamped the due date into the back of _How to Stop Worrying and Start Living_ by Dale Carnegie.

"You know, they credit Carnegie with starting the entire self-help genre," Belle rattled on, impervious to the serene, smiling stare on the face of her newest patron. Catching his eye, she grew quiet as she realized she was opining on his reading choices, a sworn sin of a good librarian. "You know, you can tell a lot about a person by the books they read," she continued, unable to hide her enthusiasm for the written word.

"Is that so?" Gold asked quietly, as though the conversation was of great importance and not the result of her blathering. "I'd love to know what you think of me, then," he challenged, his amber eyes glinting.

Belle's mouth went dry; _Was Mr. Gold flirting with her?_ "You are interested in improving your daily life in small ways," she countered, "and you have a penchant for rotting meat." She grinned as she scanned _Green Eggs and Ham_.

"Touché, Miss French." A smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

"Please call me Belle," she heard herself say.

"Belle," he repeated in a husky voice that sent a shiver up her spine. "One last wandering book I found near the self-help section." He tossed a thin volume on the circulation desk.

She eyed the title in horror: _Farewell to Flab._ He of all people didn't need a diet book, and Belle would know. She had spent the last two hours ogling his trim physique. Belle yanked her cardigan more snugly around her middle. Had he spotted her secret stash of powdered doughnut holes and decided to send her a roundabout weight loss message?

Gold hiked an eyebrow and glared at the book. "Why would you carry this drivel in such a fine establishment of higher learning?" And with that he smiled, hefted Henry on his hip and kissed his nose, and bid her a wonderful day.

Belle stared after Gold in wonder as he strolled out of the library with a remarkable grace for a man carrying a toddler, a diaper bag, and a cane. Henry hollered goodbye over his shoulder and Belle smiled and waved at the adorable little boy with his grandpa's eyes.

Once they were out of sight, she flopped down in her chair and sighed. _He liked her library. Maybe he even liked her._ Mr. Gold wasn't who she thought he was at all, and she was glad.

xoxo

 ** _Marco's Cucina, Present Day_**

"Thank you for telling me all that." She beamed at him, then her smile faltered. "It's a wonderful memory, but is there a point to all this?"

He chuckled. "Well, I'm not sure. I was going for distraction."

"I'm sorry," she said on a sigh. "About the talk around town. Why would they need to talk about us anyway?"

Gold was puzzled. Belle seemed to believe it was somehow her fault that people were gossiping about them. He shrugged inwardly; rumors never troubled him. Speculation was a natural human consequence of not having enough facts to go on.

Belle didn't see it that way, though. The gossip caused her pain, and whatever hurt her, hurt him.

Neal's advice from the fishing expedition several weeks earlier returned like a boomerang, and for the first time, it occurred to Gold that Belle's modesty perhaps wasn't a quality to be prized. After years of traveling among egocentric people and being burned by Milah, who cared only about appearances, he'd become jaded and suspicious. For all these years, he had admired Belle from afar for being so much more than a beauty, so much more than a prize to be won. Now it dawned on him that what he perceived as modesty was a severe lack of confidence. His wonderful Belle saw herself as no one of importance, and the realization devastated him. She needed to know how deeply he cherished her, how she'd changed his life. Made him feel like a person of value in ways that all his awards, accomplishments, and accolades never could.

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each one. "That's what I love about you, Belle. You don't pretend to be someone you aren't."

She knitted her eyebrows together, waiting. A tangible energy crackled between them.

"Yes, I suppose there is a point to my story. The point is that I've been waiting for this—for us—ever since that day in the library. Since even before that day. It's a dream I never thought would come true, sweetheart. Belle, you have to know...I'm falling for you."

"Wh-what?" Her voice shook and the hope that leapt into her eyes gave him courage to continue. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm in love with you. Totally, irrevocably in love. I don't care what people say, I don't care what they think." He grasped her hands to quell the shaking in his own. "All I care about is you."

She said nothing and he forced himself to swallow, a wave of fear crashing through him even as his hands tightened around hers. Maybe she didn't feel the same. Maybe he was rushing her. _God above, she could destroy him with a word!_ He closed his eyes, tamping down on his fear. _No, I love her. If she doesn't feel the same way yet, so be it._

Belle swallowed hard, her tiny voice trembling in cadence with her lower lip. "You…you love me? Me? But…"

Gold raised a finger to her rosebud mouth, tender and swollen from his kiss.

"Shhh. You make me happy," he repeated. "Forget the rest of the town. Let them talk, let them look."

"It's not so easy for me to let them look," she admitted, wiping a tear that leaked from the corner of her eye.

"Would it help if I threatened to beat people with my cane?"

She huffed a watery laugh. "Maybe a little."

She moistened her dry lips with her tongue, the fleshy tip of it sweeping over her full, lower lip. _Yes, they had been doing entirely too much talking_ , he thought, leaning forward as his lips sought hers. Pressing against her, he opened his mouth, taking her upper lip between his, suckling slightly, eliciting a small whimper from the back of Belle's throat. He dipped down, lavishing the same treatment on her lower lip. Blood pounded in his ears and he felt as though he would explode; the hand that had been resting on her knee inched higher, his fingers squeezing into the soft flesh of her upper thigh. She was so soft, and warm, and her lips intoxicatingly sweet…

"Ok, piccioncini." They pulled apart and looked at Marco. "I no like to interrupt your wooing, but dinner time is coming, _va bene_?" The chef waved his hand around the bustling kitchen. "You're distracting my staff. You like a table?"

"Is that like, leave or get a room?" Belle snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. Gold bit back a laugh. He loved how confident she was among the few people she trusted.

"Use your imagination, Bella," Marco replied, his eyes twinkling. He walked quickly back to the ovens and flung open the door to remove an enormous, covered baking pan.

"A man on a mission," Gold observed with an apologetic smile. "I have to go anyway, sweetheart. It's family game night. Henry's choice, which means endless rounds of Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders."

Belle laughed. "That sounds…spirited."

"Why don't you come with me? I could use a partner. I'm fine when we play Scrabble but I'm absolute bollocks at Charades. Neal and Emma will be there, of course, and they always welcome a chance to spend time with you."

A soft pink rose on Belle's cheeks. He smiled again, trying to encourage her. Belle still didn't believe that people wanted to spend time with her, that she was worth the effort, but she would. Given enough time and love and care, she would.

"Between you as a writer and me as a librarian, we'd make a fantastic team," she agreed, squeezing his forearm lightly. "Yes. Let's go."

###

Piccioncini = lovebirds  
va bene? = Is it ok?


	13. Game Night

Summary: Belle continues to bond with Gold and his family while trying to keep Gold away from Edith and Maurice.  
A/N: Sorry for the long wait, friends! I really wanted to get this out sooner but it didn't happen for a variety of personal and professional reasons. After the last chapter, so many of you asked for a family game night that Gold/Cassidy Family antics took over the majority of this chapter. Lots of sweet Swanfire and Papafire feels here, too. Hope you enjoy!

 _"Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!  
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.  
I'm afraid that sometimes  
you'll play lonely games too.  
Games you can't win  
'cause you'll play against you."  
_— _Dr. Seuss_

Belle sipped her mulled cider, the warm, rich beverage rolling over her tongue and warming her from the inside out like a hug. She licked her lips and looked over the rim of the cup.

All the nasty rumors and comments circling town about her and Gold had been set aside for the moment, and she was at peace as she lounged in Emma and Neal's recreation room. The Cave, as Emma had dubbed it, felt like anything but. It was a large, airy room above the garage with high ceilings that Neal had built as an add-on soon after Henry was born. There the family watched movies, played games, and entertained. Although she was only a first-time guest, Emma and her family had welcomed Belle with open arms, and the indescribable quality of being surrounded by a loving family made her feel cozy and happy.

Beside her on the couch, she felt the warmth of someone's gaze, and shifted her attention toward Erskine. Sure enough, he was toying with a letter tile and watching her, a slight smile on his handsome face.

She returned to studying the neck-and-neck Scrabble board laid out on the coffee table, but the puzzle swam in front of her eyes. Her heartbeat quickened and she swallowed. Concentrating with his warm, admiring eyes on her was impossible. Belle fidgeted with an 'x.' "Stop looking at me when I'm trying to build a word."

"I can't help myself," he said, and the way his soft brogue washed over her made her shiver. He shifted closer so they were sharing the same sofa cushion. "Your beauty is distracting."

Belle gnawed on her lower lip as she shuffled her letters. She looked up at him through her lashes. "You're trying to fluster the competition."

"Maybe." His hand found hers, and he traced her knuckles with his index finger one ridge at a time. He blinked at her, the picture of innocence. "Do you want to trade letters?"

"Not a chance, Gold." She grinned, then popped four tiles on the board to spell 'EXUDE.' "Triple word score."

"Brilliant." His eyes darkened from chocolate to onyx as he stared at her mouth. "Did you win?"

"Yes." Belle tallied the final score with a pencil, growing confused as he eased even closer. The scant few inches of gingham couch between them disappeared. Had he thrown the game? He seemed downright cheerful about losing.

"Good," he said with a growl. "Come here."

He yanked her toward him, and she collapsed against his chest, dropping the pencil. "Well, if you insist," she said, smiling into his paisley tie.

It felt so good to be cradled in his warm embrace and she savored his fresh, masculine scent. Gold's arms were a safe haven, strong and sure, and she was content to be close to him for hours—talking, reading, teasing, or sitting side-by-side with o words needed.

Across the room, Henry, Emma, and Neal were engaged in a vigorous game of Twister. Emma spun the wheel, and Neal was instructed to move his right elbow behind him to the red dot over his head. He was stretched backward over Emma and Henry, his back arched like a bow, his face beet-red and strained. Belle winced; that _did not_ look comfortable.

Neal groaned, nearly doing a backbend in his effort. "I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow, am I?"

Emma giggled and stretched her left foot toward the green dot in the corner. "You're the one who wanted to play this game."

Belle said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't been asked to join in. Twister was intense and physical. With her luck, she would have flopped on top everyone and crushed the entire family. Watching was great fun, though, and she laughed when Henry launched himself on top of Neal and the Cassidys all toppled into a pile on the carpet.

Erskine, who was declared exempt because of his bad ankle, laughed with her, then dropped a kiss on top of her head and looped his arm around her shoulder. Belle burrowed more snugly into his chest with a contented sigh.

"Hey!" Neal grabbed for Henry's middle and tickled his belly. "We made a Henry sandwich!"

At his parents' mercy, Henry squealed in delight, and Gold turned toward her, beaming. "Are you having a good time, sweetheart?" He placed another sweet kiss against her temple, and Belle thought the width of her smile would crack her cheeks. She couldn't remember a time when she had enjoyed herself more.

"Yes, thank you."

And it was true. Being an audience for these antics certainly beat her usual evening plans of sneaking chocolate walnut cookies out of the pantry after midnight and hiding out in her room to read home improvement magazines. This happy family—hugging, laughing, teasing, and playing with each other was such a contrast to the cold, silent tomb she lived in with Edith and her father. At Belle's house, they never joked and teased. A family game night was out of the question. Her father would fall asleep even before the board was set and Edith was like a spoiled child: brimming with nervous energy and too fidgety to relax into the simple pleasure of a game. Yet here was Henry, eager to learn and play anything his parents suggested. Of course, he was ahead of Edith in the maturity department. _Probably in intelligence, too_.

"All right!" Emma clapped her hands, drawing everyone's attention. "We have a few minutes before dinner, so I think it's time to calm things down with a round of Pictionary. Now for teams. Teams, teams, teams…" Smiling, she looked around the room at each person, eyes slanted as she strategized. "Girls versus guys. Belle? You game?"

"No fair!" Still sprawled out on the Twister mat, Neal jumped up and wiped his hands on his jeans. He bounded over to the couch and tried to wedge himself between her and Erskine. "Shove over, Papa." He looked down at the Scrabble board. "Geez, Pop, she _trounced_ you. You better get yourself a new dictionary. Maybe Belle has one at the library." He chortled at his own joke, slapping his hands on his knees.

Gold raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Noted, son."

Neal turned back to Emma. "Em, baby, you can't claim the best player in the room without even giving the rest of us a chance to convince her."

He flashed a dazzling, white-toothed grin at Belle. Her heart fluttered and she glanced at Erskine who wore an expression that matched his son's. _Ah, that was it._ Among his father's other incredible qualities, Neal possessed his stunning smile.

"C'mon, Belle." Neal winked. "You know you want to play with me."

Belle wasn't used to so much positive attention being directed at her at once. The Cassidys were loud and direct and bursting with life. She shrank against Erskine for a moment, and he gave her an encouraging caress, rubbing his warm palm in circles on her back. Emboldened by his support, she leaned forward, her hands braced on her knees, and locked eyes with Neal. "It appears charm is a family trait. What makes you think I'm any good, Neal? I don't have any particular drawing abilities to speak of." She schooled her face into what she hoped was an innocent expression.

Neal scoffed, then looked at Emma. "This is your influence, isn't it?" He turned back to Belle. "I know this trick, lady. You're sandbagging."

Belle narrowed her eyes in challenge and pushed her shoulders back. "Am I? You'll have to play Emma and me to find out."

Gold snickered, banging his cane on the floor. "My Belle gives as good as she gets, son."

"I can see that." Neal scratched his chin with his fingers, a grin splitting his face.

Waving his arms with excitement, Henry jumped up and down and laughed. "Yay! Mommy and Miss Belle are gonna play me, Daddy, and Grandpa!" He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes serious. "You girls are toast!"

"Henry…" Emma gave him a warning look. "We play nice in this house."

"Sorry," he said. Henry's stomach growled in complaint, and Belle suppressed a smile. "Mommy, can we order pizza? I'm starving."

"No, honey, I'm making…" The obnoxious buzz of the smoke alarm cut Emma's words short, and she leapt off the loveseat with a groan and flew down the stairs, presumably toward the kitchen. "Damn it!"

"You said a bad word," Henry called after her, leaning over the railing.

"Buddy." Neal shook his head. "Not now, ok? But you can go grab the menu for Luigi's Pizza from my office. It's underneath Daddy's blueprints."

"Yessssss!" Pumping a fist, Henry vaulted over the back of the couch and ran downstairs.

Neal flashed Belle a sheepish smile. "Don't tell Marco."

Luigi's was the only pizza shop in town, the only option besides the thin crust wood-fired pies that Marco served at his restaurant. Marco despised Luigi and called him a pretender—impostore—claiming his pizzas weren't authentic Italian. He was still trying to figure out how to add pizza delivery to his overwhelming restaurant enterprise. Meanwhile, Luigi's shop was inexpensive, fast, and right down the road. And they delivered.

"Don't worry." Belle gave a mock shudder. "Marco loves me, but if he finds out I ate Luigi's pizza, he'd never make me tiramisu again."

"That would be a travesty." Gold nodded. "We won't say a word."

"I'm going to check on Emma." Belle pressed a kiss to his cheek and hopped off the couch.

A string of muffled curse words drifted up the stairs as Belle followed her nose toward the odor of burned food. Her mobile phone buzzed in her sweater pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen, the smile on her lips dying when she saw who the text was from. She plopped down in the middle of the staircase with a heavy sigh.

 _Edith: Will you be home for dinner?_

 _Belle: I don't think so._

Edith: _Why not? I made that reduced-fat tofu and broccoli casserole from the diet you liked._

Belle hovered over the power button, tempted to shut the phone down. It seemed that every time she was out having a pleasant time with Erskine or Emma, Edith was screaming for attention. After she'd stayed the night at Gold's during the storm, Edith had wrung her hands and whined because Belle hadn't called. "How could you do that to your father and me?" she had asked. "We were up all night, sick with worry." No matter how many times Belle had explained that her phone had died and Gold's home was close, Edith wouldn't hear her excuses.

Following their disastrous introduction in Gold's foyer, Belle had come home to find Edith lying prone on the couch, a heating pad pressed to her abdomen. In a feeble voice, she'd asked Belle to bring her a cool washcloth for her forehead and had even managed to squeeze out a tear or two. Belle rolled her eyes against a wave of guilt as another text bubble appeared.

Edith: _Your father misses you._

Belle felt a stab of pain at the mention of her father. Oh, how she wished those words were true, but she knew better—Edith was grasping. The desperation in that message stunk worse than the smell of scorched rice wafting from the Cassidy's kitchen two floors below. Belle knew she had no choice but to confront Edith tonight, no matter when time she came home.

Belle: _I'll see you when I get home._

Edith: _What time will that be?_

"Neal says the pizza will be here soon," Gold said from behind her. Belle turned around on the stairs. Gold glanced at the phone in her hands, then his gentle gaze caressed her face. "Is everything all right, sweetheart?"

The affection in his eyes took her breath away. Belle's heart squeezed as her brain replayed his confession of love, mere hours ago in the kitchen at Marco's.

 _He loves me._

She couldn't believe such an incredible man wanted a relationship with her, to be saddled with her myriad dysfunctions. He'd overlooked her weight, her baggy clothing, even her social awkwardness. Fear nagged at her, fueling the familiar anxiety that once he knew all her secrets and shame—not to mention her family—he would run screaming for the hills.

But those worries were for another day. They were having a wonderful time, and she wouldn't allow Edith to poison it.

She switched off the phone and dropped it into her handbag. Stepping into his arms, she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Yes," she said, closing her eyes in bliss. "Everything's perfect."

xoxo

After everyone had devoured pizza loaded with sausage, mushrooms, green peppers, and extra cheese, they'd divided into two teams to play Pictionary—Emma and Belle against Neal, Henry, and Gold.

Several rounds into the game, Emma and Belle were winning, trading high-fives and knowing glances. Gold shook his head in amusement. It was as though they were reading each other's minds after spending a weekend on one of those team-building exercises where they gave you a rock and a slice of bread and told you to build a fire. Whenever it was their turn, one of them would scribble some obscure lines that may as well have been hieroglyphs and the other would guess the correct answer.

Gold tried not to cheer when Belle drew books and a clock to represent 'Story Hour' and Emma guessed in record time.

"No fair," Neal said, elbowing Emma in the ribs, "she's a librarian. And Papa—" his son raised his eyebrows and sent him an accusing look—"you're supposed to be on our side."

Gold snickered, the sound coming out more like a choke than a laugh. The unspoken bond developing between his daughter-in-law and the woman he loved made his throat clench with emotion. If he wasn't so in love with Belle and happier than he'd been in years, he might have been jealous of their easy camaraderie. He and Belle had only been a couple for a matter of weeks, but he'd cared for her long before that; long enough to know that his feelings were true. This wasn't some fleeting infatuation or a mistake.

He'd been a bit stung earlier today when he'd told Belle he loved her for the first time and she hadn't said the words back. But as he reflected on the moment, he hadn't given her much chance to speak. He had shared his own feelings and silenced her with a kiss.

 _Nice going, Gold._

He could only pray she would say the words when she was ready.

"Papa? Hello? This is mission control. Are you with us?" Neal was standing at the easel with a marker between his teeth, waiting to take his turn.

 _Oh, right. Pictionary._

This was the Gold men's last chance at winning the game. As with the Scrabble match he'd already lost, Gold couldn't have cared less. Under ordinary circumstances he was competitive, but not tonight. He waved Neal on, allowing his gaze to drift in Belle's direction once more. Watching Belle in bloom, her countenance open and her eyes filled with laughter, was more pleasurable than any game he could think of.

Drawing a card, Neal grimaced and motioned for Emma to start the timer. He drew a large square, then turned to his teammates and shrugged.

"Um," Gold pinched his nose. He had no idea what Neal was drawing, but he was supposed to play along. "A square?"

Neal shook his head and whirled back to the board. He drew two circles on the side of the box, then an angry, dark arrow to the center.

"Oh, Daddy! I know, I know!" Henry exclaimed, jumping in excitement. "It's a toy box! With balls in it!"

Neal shook his head frantically and stabbed his finger at the nondescript drawing, his eyes pleading with Gold and Henry to guess again.

"Five….four….three…two…and…Time!" Emma and Belle said in unison. They collapsed on the floor in another fit of giggles.

"Television!" Neal roared as he threw down the marker. He pointed at Belle and Emma. "You two should be docked fifty points for distraction!"

"That's a television?" Gold snorted and gestured at the crude drawing on the easel. "Let's hope the sketches you draw for your clients are better than this."

"Very funny, Papa." Neal rolled his eyes.

"It's good we're finding out about this now," Gold said. "We could have construction sites collapsing all over town." Feigning boredom, he frowned at his nails. He _was_ overdue for a manicure.

"Dad," Emma said, inclining her head toward Henry. "Sportsmanship. Little ears are listening."

Neal laughed. "Yeah, Pop, you could have at least tried. You know that you're supposed to be looking at the drawing, not at Belle, right?"

He shrugged. "I prefer my strategy."

"Do we have to separate you two?" Belle asked, beaming at him and Neal.

"Uh oh." His grandson stared at him with owlish eyes. You're gonna be in time out if you're not nice, Grandpa. Mommy will make you sit in the corner and you will not get dessert."

He grinned at Henry and ruffled his hair. "All right, I'll behave."

Emma looked at her watch. "It's almost bedtime for Henry. Last game of the night is your choice, kid. What'll it be?"

"Just Dance!" Henry yelled, holding out his small hand to Belle.

Gold's heart sank when Belle's eyes went wide and two bright spots of red appeared on her cheeks.

"Oh, um, I'm going to sit this one out, ok sweetie?" she said. "Thank you for asking me."

"Please, Miss Belle. I wanted you to dance first!" His puppy dog brown eyes were wide and hopeful. "It's Disney. You love _Beauty and the Beast_."

"That's true, but I'm sure someone else wants to go…" Belle trailed off and bit her lip, meeting his eyes.

Gold white-knuckled the head of his cane, wanting to help but not knowing how without causing her embarrassment. It was obvious she didn't want to disappoint Henry by confessing that she didn't want to dance. And with his bad leg, he couldn't do more than sway back and forth to a slow song. He opened his mouth, ready with an offer to take her home, when Emma jumped to her feet.

"You know what? I'll go first!" Emma put her foot up on the coffee table and bent over her calf to stretch.

"You?" Neal scrunched up his face. "Em, I love you, but you're the worst…" Gold met his son's eyes over Belle's head. "Oh! Yeah, honey, you go first. That's a great idea."

Henry sat on the floor, propping his elbows on the coffee table to watch. "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"Just limbering up, kid. I haven't danced in a long time."

Gold watched his daughter-in-law with interest as she shook her shoulders and kicked her legs in as awkward a jig as he'd ever seen. Her jerky movements reminded him of Elaine Bennis from that comedy show _Seinfeld_ that used to be on television. He glanced sideways at Belle, relieved that her expression had changed from pinched to relaxed.

Emma's dancing was, in a word, pathetic. All arms and legs, she shuffled around the mat, resembling a newborn colt trying to find its footing. She tripped over her own feet and fell sprawling on her behind.

Gold had never loved his daughter-in-law more than in that moment.

"All right," Belle said after Emma limped back to the couch laughing. She pressed her lips together. "I'll give it a try. But only if you'll dance with me, Henry."

They danced together to "Be our Guest." Belle's movements were graceful and sweet, and the loving way she clutched Henry's hands made his heart thump so hard he may as well have been up there with them. With her chest heaving and damp tendrils of hair sticking to her neck, Gold thought he'd never seen anything more lovely in his life.

Out of breath, Henry threw himself on the floor in a red-faced sweaty heap. "This is the best family game night ever!"

"Well, that's one thing we can all agree on," Emma said, holding up her beer in a toast. "To Belle."

"Yeah, Belle, that was awesome! You're welcome to join us whenever you like," Neal said with a wink, as they all clinked glasses. "Gotta be on my team next time, though."

Gold grinned and raised his glass, gratified by the blush that stained Belle's cheeks. He truly was blessed with the most wonderful, accepting family a man could want.

xoxo

Belle tiptoed into the dark house, groaning when she remembered that she'd promised Edith a conversation. Her stepmother was snoring in the recliner, so Belle slipped off her shoes and made a beeline for the refrigerator, her stomach rumbling with every step. If she was going to face Edith, she needed a sugar fix first.

When Henry had hauled out the dance mat earlier, Belle thought the lone slice of pizza she'd consumed at dinner would boomerang back up. She'd felt ungainly, like a massive, sad rhinoceros, and even worse because Henry had so badly wanted her to join him. Then Emma had stepped in and made a total fool of herself, the offer to dance in her stead one of the most thoughtful gestures Belle had ever received.

Even with Henry at her side, it had taken all her courage to stand in front of the television with her back toward Neal and Gold, her huge bottom wiggling and shaking for everyone to see. But none of them had judged her or looked at her with anything other than admiration. She'd been… _accepted_.

Entering the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator as slowly as possible so as not to make any noise, but the door squeaked, betraying her. Belle winced and peeked into the living room, seeing Edith shift on the chair and open her eyes. Sneaking around was pointless—when Edith looked at her, she would know the truth. _Your body looks like what you put into it, Belle._ She slammed the fridge closed and crossed her arms over her chest, prepared to do battle.

Yawning, her stepmother padded into the kitchen, and Belle's bravery withered like a daisy in the desert.

"You're tired," Belle said in greeting, starting toward the stairs to her room. "We can talk tomorrow."

"Where were you tonight?" Edith asked without preamble.

Belle looked down at her bare toes. "With the Cassidys."

"And Gold, of course." Edith's look was knowing. She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. "Oh, sweetie. I just don't want to see you get hurt. It's never going to last."

"Why not?" Belle balled her hands into fists and backed up until her hips hit the kitchen island. It was uncanny how easily Edith forced her on the defensive.

Edith pursed her lips. "You can't believe that Gold is serious about being in a relationship with you? I've been trying to piece it together for weeks and I don't understand…"

"Why he would want me?" Belle finished.

Something flashed in Edith's eyes. Her smile was feral, ugly, and Belle knew she had walked straight into a well-laid trap. _Stupid, Belle. Always trying to fill the silences._

"Those are your words, dear, not mine. But now that you mention it, it does give a person pause. An impressionable, naïve young lady dating a wealthy, older man? And he's not come see us, yet you're spending lots of time with his family."

Guilt twisted her insides. Erskine had asked several times about getting to know her parents and she had put him off again and again. Not for their sake, but for his. She didn't want to expose him to their rudeness any more than she already had. _Who are you kidding, Belle? You don't want him to find out who you really are._

"Well, not yet." Belle scrambled for excuses. "We're taking it slow. Enjoying the journey. He…he loves me."

"Is that what he told you? And do you return his… _feelings_?" Edith said the last word like it was something dirty. "Don't bother answering, dear, it's written all over your face."

"You know," she continued, her expression sly, "Gold called looking for you the night of the storm. Before you lumbered into his house and spent the night there. It was obvious he thought you should have contacted us."

Belle raised her head in surprise. She hadn't known that Gold had called Edith looking for her. "I said I was sorry about all that," she mumbled. "But the fact remains; we've done nothing wrong."

"So you say. If this relationship is as serious as you claim, invite him here. For dinner. Or is it your goal to start another round of talk? This time gossip that drags your father and me down with you?" Edith traced her fingers on the table, waiting for a reply.

Belle tried to take another step back, but she was already backed against the counter. Edith loved to feign ignorance, but she knew that her stepmother was feeding off the rumor mill.

"Of course that's not what I want." Belle shook her head. "And Gold isn't the one who doesn't want to come here. I'm the one who said no!"

"You're ashamed of us. I see." Edith nodded. "Or could it be that you aren't certain of his feelings?"

Tears burned her eyes, and Belle dug her fingernails into her palms. Concentrating on the pain kept her from crying. As usual, everything she said was being twisted. "That's not what I meant."

"Prove it."

Belle pressed her lips into a hard line, her mind whirling with doubts. _No!_ Erskine loved her. He'd told her so today. Twice. And she believed him. He'd given her every reason in the world to trust him.

"I will." Belle stalked to the pantry, making a sudden decision. Two could play at this game. She whipped out a package of Oreo cookies, and stomped back to the table. Yanking out a chair, she sat down with a heavy thud.

Edith shrank back in horror as Belle ripped open the shiny blue package. "Where-where did those things come from?"

"I bought them," Belle said, leaning over the package to inhale the fresh scent of brand new Oreos.

"What do you mean? They're horrible for you!" Edith sputtered.

"Some health experts would argue they're the healthiest cookie you can eat," Belle said, rising again to saunter to the refrigerator. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and set it on the table.

Edith's eyes darted between Belle and the Oreos. "I don't understand."

"They're Vegan, of course. No animal fat. They're on that diet plan you were raving about." Belle blinked and held a cookie out for her inspection. "Want one?"

"No!" Edith shuddered and backed out of the kitchen. "I'm going to bed."

"Good night," Belle said with a wicked smile.

After Edith had disappeared, she slumped into her chair, her knees wobbling like grape jelly. _God, she loathed confrontation._ But for the first time since she was ten years old and Edith had come into her life, _she_ had been the one to force a retreat, instead of the other way around.

There was no denying she had been backed into a corner: Edith had coerced a dinner with Gold out of her, but it was Belle who had the last word. And Gold had mentioned he wanted to know her parents better, so even if Edith was getting her way, she was making the man she loved happy.

Maybe everything was going to be okay after all.

She twisted the top off an Oreo and dunked it in the milk, then took a thoughtful bite, savoring the taste of chocolate and victory. Remembering the look on Edith's face made every calorie worthwhile.

It was far and away the best cookie she had ever eaten.

###

A/N: Thoughts? Comments?


	14. Dinner

Summary: Gold arrives for dinner at the Frenches. Contempt is on the menu.

A/N: I know it's been way too long since I gave you all a chapter, so HAPPY FRIDAY. I've been having withdrawal from writing this story.

 _He is all lines and sharp angles  
I am soft curves and extra padding  
But it doesn't matter so much  
When he's holding my hand  
Intertwined and all jumbled up,  
Or when he's kissing me  
Closed eyes and only nerves  
Igniting  
How strange to think the knife  
Could learn to love the butter  
\- Georgia Marginson-Swart_

Gold rang the Frenches doorbell and clenched his cane, grinding the brass tip into the concrete. Cold beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and the edges of his vision began to blur. He sniffed the eucalyptus leaves in the bouquet he was holding, an attempt to open his lungs and ward off an anxiety attack. _Don't panic now, Gold. Dinner with Belle's parents was your damn idea._

Blowing air roughly through his nose, he reminded himself why he was here.

For Belle.

Earlier, he had stopped at Emma and Neal's house on his way, under the guise of needing a wine recommendation. His daughter-in-law had narrowed her ice blue eyes and pushed him toward the living room sofa.

Wincing, he sank onto the couch like a recalcitrant teenager, preparing for the lecture.

Henry popped out an earbud and looked up from his Kindle. "Where's grandpa going?"

"Grandpa has dinner with Belle and her parents at their house," Emma explained.

"Can I come? I'm awful hungry and I haven't seen Miss Belle in _daaaays_." Henry patted his stomach, which growled on command. "What's to eat?"

Gold had shot Emma a hopeful look. Maybe she would let him bring Henry along. Even Edith French wouldn't draw blood in front of an innocent child, would she?

 _Don't be such a coward._

"We saw Belle at the park yesterday, remember?" Emma shook her head. "And no, you can't go to dinner."

"How come?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Because Grandpa has to face this dragon on his own."

Henry wrinkled his nose. "Is this like when Grandpa went to war?"

Gold covered a snort. The child was too perceptive for a five-year-old. "Eh, something like that."

Henry nodded as if making a decision, then abandoned his game and trotted off.

Emma put her hands on her hips. "You have a thousand bottles in your wine cellar. We have a six-pack of beer in the fridge. You're not here to ask me the difference between claret and cabernet and we both know it, so what's this all about?" She squinted at the six bottles he'd set on the coffee table.

He shrugged, unable to explain why a simple meal with Belle's parents seemed so much harder than other challenges he'd faced. At the moment, crouching in a bunker with bullets whizzing by his ears seemed preferable to what was ahead. "Do I need an excuse to visit with my family?"

"Of course not." Emma tapped the bottle of _Gewürztraminer. "_ "Belle likes this one. _You're on your own for the rest."_

She slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him toward the front door. "Remember, Dad, you're there for Belle. To show her what it means to have her in your life. She needs you to be strong. Besides, wasn't this family dinner your idea?"

He nodded, shaking off the sense of impending doom and straightening his spine. "Yeah."

"Look, don't let Edith rile you. She's just as worried as you are. Maybe even more. Look her in the eye and stand your ground!" Emma squeezed his shoulders vigorously, then thwacked him between the shoulder blades.

Gold yelped and rubbed his back. "That's your sage advice? 'Stand your ground?'"

"Exactly. The Frenches don't have to love you, they just have to not hate your guts." She crossed her arms and leveled him with a look, then nodded toward his car. "Now be the gentleman we both know you are and move your ass. You're gonna be late."

"And to think this is where I come for encouragement." Gold smirked at his daughter-in-law and tucked the wine under his arm. He started down the walkway back to his car.

"Wait!"

Henry.

Gold turned around, and his grandson thrust a plastic sword at him. "Here you go, Grandpa."

"Ugh!" Gold pretended to parry, then stumbled back, feigning a mortal wound. He threw up his hands. "I surrender!"

"No." Henry rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to take it."

"Me? Why?"

"To slay the dragon!" The child grinned. "It's super strong, so even if she breathes fire you'll be safe. But can you clean off the dragon guts and bring it back when you're through? It's my favorite."

xoxo

Gold swayed on his feet, scowling at the flowers and wine he had brought.

He braced himself against the green siding of the Frenches split-level house, taking deep breaths. Dinner with Belle's parents had seemed like such a smart, civilized idea, but now the taste of panic coated his tongue. The wine. He'd forgotten to put it in the gift bag. Quickly he made the switch, removing it from the paper sack and dumping it in the wine bag. He crumpled the sack in his fist, and flung it into the bushes as the door opened. There stood Edith French, looking prim in a tailored navy suit.

"Good evening." He inclined his head and offered his most benign smile, then tipped the flowers toward her. "Thank you for inviting me to your home."

"Mr. Gold." Her answering nod was stiff. She eyed his painstakingly-chosen cluster of peonies, roses, and hydrangea, then took a small step back, her mouth twitching. "I'm allergic to flowers."

"I see." He lowered the bouquet and tried again, this time whisking the wine out of the bag.

The brackets around her mouth deepened. "And we don't drink."

"Ah. My apologies." He choked the neck of the bottle and ground his back teeth. Getting through this dinner was going to require all his patience.

"I drink," offered a familiar, lilting voice. "And I love flowers."

 _Belle._ His heart flooded with happiness when she appeared, edging Edith out of the doorway.

All at once, the glut of tension in his stomach melted away. Seeing her was all he needed to be at ease. Belle calmed him in a way no one else ever had, and somehow he knew whatever struggles came their way, they would handle them together.

"Good evening, sir." She accepted the bouquet, then curtsied.

"My lady." He bowed, then simply stared. A lace dress the color of wine accentuated her luscious curves, its scalloped, plunging neckline molding to her breasts, while the delicate fabric swished around her thighs. "You're stunning."

"Do you like it?" She dipped her head with a coy smile, then peeked up at him through her lashes. "It's new."

Mrs. French cleared her throat.

"I'll keep these flowers in my room, Edith." Belle grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house. "The table's all set for dinner; I'm taking Gold on a tour."

She grasped his fingers and squeezed, then led him toward the staircase. He slowed down and gave her a questioning look. "I thought we were going on a tour."

"We are. Starting upstairs."

Her lithe fingers danced along the bannister and she tugged on his hand. Helpless to resist, he followed, admiring the gentle sway of her hips as she led him up the stairs and down a sparse hallway.

She threw open a door to a bright and colorful room festooned with pillows and fabrics, and ushered him inside. He looked around with pleasure, taking in the modest-sized space draped with blue and cream and accented with bits of sunny yellow. In the brief moments he spent in the Frenches' foyer, he had observed a sparse, cold residence. Hard furniture with straight lines, a dearth of personal effects. There weren't even any photos dotting the mantel.

Belle's room was a complete contrast.

Knick knacks decorated the surfaces of shabby chic furniture. It was clean yet cluttered, bursting with books, photos of exotic destinations, decorating magazines, and whimsy. There were candles, dried flowers, and colorful ceramic bowls, all artfully arranged on every available surface.

"Just sit anywhere," she said lightly, then grabbed a mason jar and dashed into the hallway. There were two choices of seating: a dainty, bright yellow kitchen chair draped with clothes, or a large canopy bed. In a moment Belle was back, the jar now filled with water, and he sat down on the edge of the bed and let his cane slip to the floor.

"You're very relaxed tonight," he said, admiring her aplomb as she arranged the flowers in the jar. She was in her element here, as she was in the library, her movements certain and focused.

"I've been drinking," she whispered loudly, with a sly smile and a wink. She lifted a bottle of peach schnapps from the bureau and took a large swig. "Sorry about Edith. I was hoping to get to the door first, but she beat me there." She held out the bottle. "Want some?"

"Sure." He smiled and took a small sip of the bright, cloying orange liqueur. "Not bad."

"My favorite." She giggled and took another large drink. The door closed with a soft thud and he heard the sound of a lock click. Belle moved forward, coming to stand between his thighs. Her hands grazed his chest and she pushed him down on the bed, then followed. He groaned when she straddled him, one rounded hip on either side of his. She rose above him, settling her pert bottom across his thighs. The glimpse into her lush cleavage made his skin prickle with desire, and she fanned his face with her warm, peach-scented breath. "Do you want to kiss me?"

The words went straight to his groin. "Always," he whispered on a strangled sigh.

Cupping his cheeks with both hands, she flicked out her tongue to lick at the seam of his lips. With a moan, he parted for her. Usually he was the one to initiate physical affection, but tonight, Gold relished Belle's boldness. As her hips sunk into his, she slid her tongue in slowly, warmth and sensation spreading through his veins like remarkable whiskey. They'd kissed dozens of times since they started dating, but Belle's mouth was always new, bright, and exciting. Tonight she tasted of ripe fruit and honey. He wondered if the rest of her skin was as sweet as her mouth, and then he couldn't think at all as she leaned over him, pressing him deeper into the pillows. Warm lips smoothed down his jawline, nibbling and lapping at his throat.

He reached up, gathering her lushness against him, all deep curves, persimmon-smooth skin, and silken heat. His hands wandered up the rough-smooth lace of her dress, dipping into the curve of her waist before sliding higher until the edge of his palms reached the soft, plump undersides of her breasts. Of their own accord, his hands cupped the swell of flesh, grasping and kneading, and his thumbs grazed over her stiff nipples, eliciting a soft whimper from her throat. Her small sounds and sweet, tender curves struck him like lightning, and heat permeated his body, chasing away the stress and concern from earlier; he was surrounded by Belle, all her warmth and sweetness enveloping him. Giving into his need, he canted his hips, her voluptuous friction arousing him beyond reason.

There was a crash, then an expletive floated through the floor vent.

"Oh!" Belle's mouth broke from his, and he lay there panting with fractured breaths. Lying in Belle's bed, dazzled by her fragrance, was a dangerous place to be.

He watched in dizzy fascination as her cleavage flooded with color, eyes pure blue and drowsy. She giggled and their gazes locked, a singular sharing of souls known only to lovers. Belle moved slightly, her hips rolling forward, and he knew she could feel his desire. His temptress eased off his body to curve against his side, her curls tickling his chin. "My parents are downstairs. My room is right above the kitchen."

Like two children who had been caught snatching cookies, they laughed, nervous, breathy sounds punctuated by the angry clatter of pots and pans.

His breathing returning to normal, he propped himself up on one elbow. "Do you think they heard us?" He was ecstatic to do anything Belle wanted, but he didn't want to be a complete ass under her parents' roof.

"I don't care." She shook her head, her long curls dancing around her shoulders. "I'm a grown-up person and I can make out with my hot boyfriend whenever I want." She reached for the schnapps again.

"Sweetheart." He stilled her hand, massaging her wrist with his thumb. "Easy on that stuff, ok? I don't want you to have a headache later."

"Ok."

She nuzzled his neck and he collapsed against the bed, then slid his arm under her pillow, his hand bumping into something hard. His fingers seized a book, and he slid it out from under his head. Belle's journal. He passed it to her like a hot potato. "Ooops. Sorry."

She kissed his nose, then flipped through the pages like an accordion, a paper-scented breeze hitting his flushed cheeks. "Some of it's about you," she confided in a wide-eyed whisper. "Wanna see?"

"Are you sure you want me to read it?" he asked, still averting his eyes from the open book. He hadn't forgotten her embarrassment when he'd accidentally perused her journal during their breakfast in the library.

Besides, he wasn't certain he wanted to look. Belle was always hinting she found him attractive, but he didn't share her view. His nose was large and crooked, his eyes hooded and too small for his face. Not to mention his limp. He was nothing compared to the ravishing beauty cuddled against him, a woman who was not only physically stunning, but one who had the kindest, purest heart of anyone he'd ever met.

She bit her lower lip, then licked it. "I'm sure."

He scanned the page, then tugged at his collar. Reading her private thoughts and being this close to her ignited the fire in his belly once more, her smoldering gaze pinning him to the bed. When he read the words " _delicious, tight backside,"_ he closed the book. "I didn't realize you were such a colorful writer, Miss French," he teased.

"When the subject matter is as fascinating and delightful as you are, I can be quite creative."

"You, ah, wrote about my hair." He raked a self-conscious hand through his cropped locks.

"Yes, when I met you it was long." She stroked a finger down his clipped sideburn. "I remember thinking at Henry's birthday bonfire that you looked…good. Different but good. And I wondered why you decided on such a change."

"I did it because I wanted to look younger." He looked down at the rumpled bedspread. "Fresh, and like someone you might want to go out with sometime."

"You cut your hair for me?"

He nodded, still without looking at her, feeling like an ancient fool.

Belle pealed with laughter, mirth sparking in her cerulean eyes.

His mouth fell open, afraid he had said too much. _God, I sound like such a creeper_. Belle noticed his chagrin, and laid a comforting hand on one of his. Her other came to his chin, fingers pressing the dimple there, as she pulled his gaze to hers.

"No one has ever done anything like that for me. Changed themselves to try to please me. But you don't have to do anything to make me notice you. Erskine, I love your long hair. I love your short hair. You look wonderful either way. To me, there's not a more handsome man anywhere. And not only because of the way you look. I want you – all of you – your hair, your mind, your smile, your sense of humor, your hands…" she circled the pad of flesh on his palm just below his thumb and grinned. "I really love your hands."

She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. Patiently he waited, his heart pounding with expectation. When her eyes opened, they were blazing with intensity, a rich, blue fire, and he held his breath.

"I love you."

xoxo

Belle clasped Gold's hand, accepting his support as they descended the stairs to dinner. She admired his profile as they entered the dining room together, his aquiline nose, his strong jaw. The more time she spent with him, the more comfortable and desirable she felt. As formal as he was in his suits, silk ties, and cufflinks studded with gemstones, everything about him put her at ease.

For some odd reason, Erskine had been delighted at the prospect of being invited to dinner. He said he wanted to know her parents better, but wasn't that just the sort of thing good boyfriends said?

Still, she felt confident and happy when he held out her chair at the table, inviting her to sit, and took his place next to her.

"Oh!" Her father nodded in approval, then lumbered toward Edith to pull out her chair. "Good idea, Gold."

"Mr. French, good evening." Gold reached out to shake Moe's hand.

Making himself useful, her father opened the wine and poured generous glassfuls for everyone but Edith.

Edith took her seat and beginning to serve the way she always did, doling out meager portions of food, like a soup kitchen running low on rations. She wasn't happy unless she was measuring every gram down to the final grain of rice.

As the bread basket went by, Belle glanced down at her rounded tummy, the fresh, yeasty scent of baguette a subtle chiding that she didn't need to eat at all. Edith met her eyes, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Belle didn't think it was possible for someone else's neurosis to actually make a person fat, but Edith's measured stare made her feel like she'd put on ten pounds just by sitting down. She let the basket pass without taking a roll.

"What were you two doing upstairs so long?" Edith dropped the serving fork and it clattered against the edge of a platter.

"Looking at books." Belle lied blithely, eyes on her silverware.

"Dirty books."

"What?" Belle choked on a sip of wine.

"There is lipstick on your collar, Mr. Gold." Edith raised a judgmental eyebrow as she fanned small portions of pork tenderloin, salad, and slivers of the potato pie—Belle's one contribution to the meal—across each dinner plate. Marco had taught her to make the combination of potatoes mashed with eggs, butter, milk, and prosciutto.

Gold looked up at Edith, surprised at the elder French woman's lack of tact. He levelled his gaze at her, not once flinching under her stare. He was a grandfather, for God's sake—kissing his girlfriend was no cause for shame.

"So there is," he countered, his gaze steady, as he reached under the table to seek and squeeze Belle's hand.

Relief flooded Belle's chest, along with the realization that Gold wasn't susceptible to Edith's guilt trips wrapped in hostility. They had done nothing wrong, although the memory of his caresses did feel deliciously sinful. She sent him a grateful look.

"I'm not sure what this potato concoction is. Belle made it and she won't tell me what's in it." Edith poked at her potatoes with a knife as though they might rear up and bite her.

"S _formato di patate_ ," Belle enunciated in Italian. "Potato pie."

"It looks delicious." Gold glared at Edith, and Belle gulped as the tension in the dining room escalated.

Her father, at least, seemed blissfully unaware of the contretemps as he forked large bites of everything on his plate. For a few minutes there was only the scrape of utensils against dishes as they ate in deafening silence, Belle and Gold both picking at their food while Edith sawed each bite into tiny pieces. Occasionally she allowed a bit of food to pass her lips, then chewed for long moments, her mouth twisted.

"Remember when Sean used to come for dinner and bring those health bars?" Edith speared a morsel of potato and gave it a nasty look.

Her father guffawed. "The rabbit food? Those things weren't fit for gerbils," Moe muttered, shoveling another large bite of potatoes laced with prosciutto into his mouth.

Belle stifled a laugh behind a mouthful of dry pork. There was a certain satisfaction in hearing her father's true feelings on her former fiancé. She wanted to remind Edith that she had been the one to dump Sean, but there was no point.

Gold interrupted the strained silence that followed.

"Belle, this is as good as any restaurant in Florence. Marco will be proud." He smiled broadly, catching her eye over the rim of his wine glass. The sharp, slightly sweet wine was sublime with the rich creamy potatoes, and Belle flushed with pleasure. Her feeble stab at cooking was the starring dish of the party.

Clearly uncomfortable with all the praise directed at Belle's dish, Edith fidgeted, interrupting the pleasant banter.

"Travel much, do you Mr. Gold?" Edith asked, her nose wrinkled like she smelled rotten eggs. "I don't know how or why you would do that, with everything wrong with the world today…" Edith leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. "It's like people who use cilantro. None of it makes sense."

"Well, I did for a time. I was an international affairs reporter for _The Globe_ ," he offered.

"He was more than that," Belle interrupted, the schnapps and wine making her brave. "He won a Pulitzer for his coverage of the first Gulf War."

"Oh, yeah?" Moe nodded his approval. For the first time she could remember, Belle's father put down his fork to pay attention to what she and her guest had to say. "Were you embedded, Gold?"

Gold relaxed as the conversation turned away from the food and into familiar territory. He flexed his fingers. "I was. I was with the Army's Third Infantry division. Tanks."

Moe swiveled toward Gold and Belle, presenting Edith with his meaty shoulder. "See any combat?" Moe took his first sip of wine. "Oh, that's good."

"Thank you, and yes, I did see some," Gold answered, not wanting to get into details, but appreciative of Belle's father's interest in his work. He felt a bit like a teenager impressing his date's father before the prom, and he was amazed to discover it wasn't at all an unpleasant sensation.

"Fiddlesticks!" Edith huffed, rising from her chair and gathering her plate. "Boys and toys." She shook her finger in Gold's direction. "That was a conflict – not a war. They'll give an award to anyone these days."

Belle felt the color drain from her face, her momentary happiness giving way to despair. If the conversation wasn't about Edith, or food, or Edith's food, it was unwelcome.

Gold bristled. "Actually, Mrs. French, many men lost their lives. Children died. Villages burned. It was a war, and it's rather insulting to hear opinions otherwise. And perhaps they do give out many awards these days." He clenched the head of his cane until his knuckles cracked. "Makes it all the more interesting when a person doesn't have one, yes?"

Edith's back straightened, a steel rod through her spine, and she leveled her head and looked down her nose at her guest. Belle felt tears spring to her eyes, and she swallowed hard, fighting to retain her composure.

Gold smiled at Belle, a quick nod to let her know he was okay, that Edith wasn't getting to him. But her eyes were dim and unseeing. She was frozen, her expressive face drawn and shuttered, as though Edith had sucked every ounce of hope and happiness from her soul.

The confidence and grace he'd observed upstairs drained out of her, and as he watched it happen, he became angrier with every passing second.

Anxious for something to do, Belle reached into the bread basket to pull out a roll with trembling fingers.

"Belle." Edith eyed the roll in her hand and shook her head again.

Belle didn't think. She opened her fingers and hurled the dinner roll at Edith's smug face. It bounced off her forehead and landed in the pitcher of water with a plop, bloating and sinking to the bottom of the glass. Bloated and sinking. That was her.

Her stunned gaze collided with her stepmother.

"Excuse me," Belle said, in as dignified a tone as she could muster. Mortified, she rose from the table and left the room on leaden feet.

"Belle!" Edith's shrill tones pierced the silent, stuffy air. "Come back here!"

Gold dropped his napkin and pushed back from the table, his cane scraping the hardwood in a discordant squeak. His mind was spinning in vicious circles. All he wanted to do was go after Belle, to drag her out of this mental institution and never let her cross the threshold again.

He would take her out for a real dinner with real food, where they could relax and laugh and enjoy themselves. And drink a bloody glass of wine without censure. Then he would install her at Emma and Neal's house or beg her to move in with him, marry him. Whatever it took to get her the hell away from here.

"Mr. Gold." Edith's frown was severe. "Keep your seat. Let me explain. Please."

He could tell how much the appeal was costing her.

"Fine." He conceded for the moment, lapsing into the frosty tone reserved for the lowlifes he didn't want to interview but had no choice. He snapped open his pocket watch, then looked pointedly at Edith. "This better be good."

xoxo

Belle stood in the hallway outside the dining room, straining to hear their conversation.

A dull headache throbbed in the center of her forehead, the pain sharpening with every passing moment. Maybe the peach schnapps and the wine hadn't been her best idea. She'd thrown Gold down on her bed and seduced him in her parents' house, then she'd embarrassed him by having a tantrum at the table.

She'd told Erskine she loved him, and now he held her heart. Would he leave now, after enduring a main course of flagrant insults served with a side of backhanded compliments? She wouldn't blame him for walking out the door and never looking back. She felt her heart crack inside her chest, the inevitability of disaster looming before her. She clenched her fists, her blunt nails digging into the flesh of her palms.

"Allow me to apologize for Belle." Edith's restrained voice filtered through the wall, and Belle wanted to punch the drywall. "She's…families tend to have these little arguments now and again. She's a passionate, spirited girl. I'm sure you understand. It's nothing to be concerned about."

From the other side of the wall, she rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Edith.

"When it comes to Belle, I am in every possible way _concerned_ ," Gold replied, the fury in his voice mounting. "I don't know what sort of witchcraft you've employed to keep that glorious creature here under your roof. She's desperate for affection and attention, and I've just spent an interminable hour listening to you cut her—and me—down in every possible way. I'm sick to my stomach, and it's not from the overcooked pork or limp salad."

"Mr. Gold—"

Belle peeked into the dining room in time to see Gold shift toward her father, his tone softening in appeal. "My God, do you even _see_ her? She is brilliant and beautiful, full of life and light. All she wants to do is please you, to be enough." His voice grew deeper, rougher. "I don't know why she even bothers, but she's too incredible a person not to try."

Dumbstruck, Belle ducked back into the hallway and leaned against the cool wall, wishing she could see the look on Edith and Daddy's faces.

Gold continued, low and lethal, and Belle rose on tiptoe as if to better hear his next words. "If you want to offer apologies, Mrs. French, offer them on behalf of yourself and offer them to your _daughter._ We're done here."

Belle heard the scrape of a chair, then her eyes widened as Gold stumbled around the corner into the hallway, his face white and his lips twitching, eyes desperate and tear-filled. Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him and he collapsed against her, taking great, shuddering gulps of air.

"Shhh, deep breaths." She held his trembling body as he struggled for oxygen, absorbing his shaking with her own tremors. She rubbed her hands in soothing circles across his back, then smoothed her fingers up and down his arms in gentle strokes. Her voice quavered as she spoke, grounding him, bringing him back to her. "Long breaths from deep down…I've got you, baby."

"I'm sorry," she heard him whisper between broken gasps. He raised his head from her shoulder, and she swiped tears from his pale, cool cheeks. "Belle, I'm so sorry."

Hot tears dripped down her own face unchecked, the salt stinging her mouth. She hadn't known she was crying, but after all the beautiful words he'd said about her, the way he defended her to Edith, how could she help it? "You have nothing to be sorry about, Erskine. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh, Belle. My beautiful, brave sweetheart." He framed her face with his hands and kissed her, murmuring endearments against her lips. "How can you be so strong and courageous in the middle of all this madness?"

"Don't you see?" She smiled at him through her tears. "It's because I have you."

###


	15. Decisions

Summary: Neal ships his dad and Belle hardcore. Meanwhile, Belle and Gold deal with the aftermath of their dinner with Edith and Moe, and Belle makes a major decision.  
A/N: Flashbacks are marked with italics. Hopefully you can follow. It's been 84 years, you guys! I'm sorry! THANK YOU to everyone who is still supporting and sticking with this story. I will try to be more routine with updates, though I can't guarantee it because my muse takes its sweet time on this one. What I can guarantee is I WILL finish it!

 _"When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves." Viktor E. Frankl_

Neal ducked away from the flakes of paint and insulation floating to the floor, then draped himself over the top of the ladder to watch Belle French bustle around the library.

He grinned to himself as Belle surveyed the space, hands on her hips. She started dragging furniture around the library, organizing the chairs and tables into attractive clusters—some for solitude, some for conversation. Next she went to the circulation desk and arranged some flowers in a vase. They were in the perfect position to be admired but not knocked over by a book or someone's elbow. He was impressed. He loved to build a room—the smell of sawdust, getting something "in the dry"—going from an open frame to a building with a roof and walls, and he loved to work with his hands. He could create a building as solid as a rock, but Belle knew how to bring a space to life.

She moved in his direction and he descended from the ladder with loose, easy strides.

"Hey, Belle. How's it going?" He wiped a bit of texture off his shirt. "You and Emma walking today?"

As happy as he was that Belle and his dad were falling in love, the instant friendship that had developed between Belle and his wife was even cooler, not that he'd ever admit it out loud. Emma had never had a truer, sweeter friend. At first glance, they were very different—Emma was brash and sporty while Belle was studious and feminine, but they had so much in common. They shopped together, shooed him away from his big-screen TV to watch cheesy romantic comedies together, and Belle was the only person who indulged Emma in her love of sushi. Some nights, the glare from Emma's phone would wake him up, and he'd roll over in bed to find his wife giggling over a text, meme, or clever comment. All from Belle, of course.

He considered himself a damn fine judge of character. And there was no better friend to his wife than Belle French. She was clever, fun, and above all, fiercely loyal. Their relationship had grown so strong that he felt whatever happened between Pop and Belle, Emma and Belle's friendship would last.

"Walking three times a week, yes." Belle smiled and motioned toward his ladder and the hole in the ceiling. "How are the repairs going?"

"I'm done out here for today." He took off his tool belt and set it on the canvas tarp he'd spread to protect the floor. "The leak you had a couple months ago is worse, though, and we're going to need to rebuild part of the ceiling for safety reasons. I need to schedule a couple of structural tests with the city, but I wondered if I could take a look upstairs."

"Oh, what for?"

He kept his shrug nonchalant. "A few ideas hit me when I was driving over; thought I would see if they might pan out in that space."

Her face lit up, then fell, but she nodded in the direction of the door to the second floor. "Sure, you can look, but fair warning: we don't have the budget dollars to make that area over, no matter how much I'd love an expansion."

"Got it." He saluted with a small smile. It wasn't an expansion for the library he had in mind, but he couldn't tell Belle yet. Pop had sworn him to secrecy. His father was determined to see the upstairs built into an apartment for her, and money wasn't going to be a problem.

As he climbed the creaky staircase, the odors of mildew and mothballs hit his nose. He wondered how many times Belle might have ventured upstairs with a stack of decorating books and magazines, dreaming of ways to make something of the space but not having the tools or the means to do so.

He gained the landing and looked around; potential teemed in the scratched, warped floorboards and grey, dull walls. The same light flooding the front windows of the first floor bathed this space in bright sunshine. He squinted, mentally dividing the space. A small yet fully functional bathroom in the far corner; a bright galley kitchen with a breakfast bar and stools; a living room framed by a window seat and built-in bookshelves.

Yes, he could transform this dusty, dank space into something awe-inspiring.

He took a few minutes to sketch out his thoughts, then banged back down the stairs just in time to see his father walk into the library.

Papa raked a hand through his cropped hair, anxious eyes darting around, and Neal hovered behind the stacks to observe him. The moment his dad caught sight of Belle was something to see. The hard lines of his face softened and his eyes got mushy and muddy—like the melted chocolate he scraped off Henry's hands after a visit with his grandpa.

When she saw his father, Belle's friendly yet guarded countenance melted away, replaced by such a look of open adoration that he felt like he'd barged in on a private moment. They may as well have been the only two people in the library. A furious blush colored Belle's cheeks, and even his father looked a little red under his tanned skin.

It was intimate and sweet and he swiped his knuckles across watery eyes. "Damned plaster," he muttered to no one in particular, then broke out in another helpless grin as his dad crossed the library toward the woman he loved.

xoxo

Today was going to be salvaged, Belle determined, no matter how many obstacles she'd overcome this morning. Or how long and sleepless her night had been.

She'd stormed into the library like a woman on a mission, barking orders and flinging herself into the long-overdue task of rearranging furniture. Anything to keep her mind from returning to her conversation with Edith. Teeth gritted, she muscled a heavy mission-style chair into the back corner. If she pretended she was shoving Edith down a flight of stairs instead of pushing chairs into attractive formations, well she couldn't be arrested for murderous thoughts, could she?

After lying awake for hours, watching the dawn break across the sky while Erskine slept peacefully at her side, Belle had realized she couldn't take it another day in her parents' house. Not for one more hour. She got up, dashed off a note to Erskine, and put on her clothes, her gaze hardly straying from his beloved face as she slipped on her shoes.

She'd hesitated in the doorway of his room, casting another longing look at the divet in the pillow where her head had been. It wasn't easy, leaving the security of his embrace to face the unknown at home, and every muscle screamed for her to crawl back into bed to watch him sleep until those gorgeous brown eyes opened and he smiled his special smile, the one she fancied he reserved only for her. But she couldn't run away from her problems this time. Her parents' appalling behavior at last night's dinner had been like a glaring, fluorescent light, illuminating all the cracks and ugliness her family was hiding. Change desperately needed to happen.

Belle had tiptoed down the stairs, away from the warmth and safety of Gold's arms, feeling the pinch of her circumstances like a too-tight waistband. This wasn't his problem to solve, though, and she would die before she would put him in the middle of another awkward family squabble. Edith's failure to see her as a grown woman instead of a susceptible child was aggravating. Daddy's refusal to see her at all was heartbreaking. For years she'd kept silent out of respect, but Edith's rules and expectations had begun to chafe, as had her father's extended silence. She was a grown woman with a job. No, a career. Now she was making friends, building a life of her own. And she'd fallen in love with a man who was not only not threatened by her success, he was encouraging it.

She'd crept into the house while it was still dark, filled a suitcase with clothes and packed the essential items from her room into a box. When she could put it off no longer, she'd gone back downstairs to face Edith.

xoxo

 _From the kitchen doorway, Belle twisted her fingers in her long, black skirt, watching Edith wash and wipe dishes. Should she sit down or keep standing? Belle chewed her lower lip in indecision. She was painfully ill at ease in her own home, and it had gone on long enough._

 _"You missed breakfast," Edith chided, breaking the silence without turning away from the sink._

 _"Yes…" She trailed off, knowing what she needed to say but not finding the words. She took a deep, trembling breath. Sometimes there was really was no way to deliver bad news, even if that news was only going to be regarded as bad by one of them._

 _Steeling her spine, Belle decided to go for the direct approach. "I'm moving out."_

 _"Well." Edith snapped her head around, the movement sharp and agitated, then dried her hands on a dishtowel. "I'm just going to come out and say it, Belle."_

 _"Yes, don't hold back." Belle bit the inside of her cheek, but it was too late to take back her sarcasm._

 _Edith flashed her a warning look. "You're father isn't going to be happy about this."_

 _"I know, and I'm sorry." That much was genuine. "But I can't live my life trying to make him happy with me." Especially since she knew nothing was ever going to make her father truly happy again. The void left by her mother's death was still gaping and raw. And she had allowed his stagnancy to poison her outlook on the future. She'd become an empty shell, doing little more than existing, until Gold and his family had awakened her. She was hungry, not for food, but for affection and attention. She was starving for a real life!_

 _"Be careful." Edith smirked at Belle's chest and Belle crossed her arms over her breasts, regretting her decision to wear the teal scoop-neck top that Emma had given her over wine one girl's night. Somehow, her stepmother managed to make her feel ugly and ashamed, no matter what. "Gold's not going to buy the farm when you're giving the milk away for free, dear."_

 _"If you must know, I'm moving in with Marco for a while." Belle squeezing her damp palms together to keep from trembling. Just until she decided on a more permanent solution. And maybe she would even come back here someday, if they wanted her. No_! _she corrected herself, she wouldn't. Once she walked out the door with her bags, there could be no calling this place home again._

 _"Nevertheless," Edith persisted. "I don't think you're making wise choices."_

 _Inside Belle was wavering, tears of shame and weakness filling her eyes, but she kept her gaze steady and focused. All the fight seemed to go out of Edith and she slumped, her face draining of color and her own eyes filling with tears._

 _"It's about the dinner, isn't it? That's why you're leaving? The cooking wasn't fancy enough for Mr. Gold?" She wrung her hands, suddenly looking old and tired and sad._

 _Belle blew out a surprised breath. "No, Edith, dinner was the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I wouldn't have cared if you'd busted out a package of Hot Pockets, as long as you treated Gold with respect and decency. Regardless of what he means to me—and the fact that I love him should matter to you—there was no excuse for the things you said."_

 _Edith's thin lips began to tremble and a lone tear spilled down her pale cheek. "But all I have, all I am, is taking care of you and your father."_

 _And for the first time, Belle looked at her stepmother and saw her, not as a monster determined to make her life hell, but for who she really was: a lonely, grasping middle-aged woman, uncertain of her place in the world._

xoxo

Belle pushed the final library chair into place, forming a cozy circle around a reading table, then flounced over to the circulation desk to arrange the bouquet of mums she'd picked up from the flower shop. As soon as she finished here, she was closeting herself inside her office for a late lunch of snowball snack cakes, and no one—not even Emma—would be the wiser.

After last night's excruciating family dinner, Erskine had escorted her to the Rabbit Hole for a drink, and she'd clung to his arm, shivering in the brisk November evening air. They'd huddled together for hours at a cozy corner table, sipping their drinks and holding hands, the whiskey warming her and making her toes tingle. She hadn't raised a single objection when he bundled her into his car and taken her back to his house for the night.

She'd already slept there once, so it was a quick, comfortable journey from the couch to his bed, and he'd handed her a pair of his sweatpants and a soft, almost threadbare t-shirt with a smile. The sweet memory of his touches and kisses brought a fierce blush to her cheeks. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly how to make her feel at ease and desired all at the same time, making her forget everything that made her feel bad about herself. They'd lain in the dark, his mouth murmuring reassurances into her ear, telling her over and over how much he loved her.

 _She threaded her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for another kiss, her lips swollen and tingling. He grazed his teeth over the spot she always nibbled when she was thinking, then soothed the sting with his tongue. His hot breath ghosted over her face and neck, pebbling her flesh. She pressed his hand against her breast with a moan, delighting in the heat of his palm through the soft, borrowed cotton._

 _He jerked back, his breath coming in pants. She leaned over him, eyes wide with concern. "Are you having another panic attack, honey?"_

 _"No." He laughed, but it came out more like a wheeze._

 _"Okay, good. Then will you kiss me again?" she prodded, pulling at his shoulders._

 _"Belle, you have no idea what you do to me, do you? I need to stop, sweetheart, before I lose myself." His dark eyes glittered in the dark. "Let's...it's late. Can we go to sleep?"_

 _"Oh." She ducked her head, hiding against his chest, but Erskine would have none of it. He lifted her chin forcing her to meet his eyes. Even in the shadows, the feral hunger she saw written across his features took her breath away._

 _"Belle, sweetheart, the first time I make love to you, it's going to be planned and it's going to be perfect. Not something rushed when it's late at night after a tense evening and our heads are muddled with drink." He paused, dragging his finger over her lips. "Okay?"_

 _"Okay." She nodded and lowered her head to his chest to cuddle closer, ridiculously pleased that he desired her so much._

 _A tiny voice of doubt wanted to tell her he was lying, but she squashed it without mercy. Erskine loved her—she'd never been more certain of anything in her entire life._

 _After he'd nodded off to sleep, scenes from earlier in the evening repeated themselves like a gag reel from a horror film. So ashamed and embarrassed by what he'd put up with from her parents, she'd listening to his deep, even breaths and pressed her face against his neck, trying to find rest that never came. Giving up, she'd dashed off a note to him, and left, walking back to her house to pack her bags and make arrangements to stay with Marco._

xoxo

Belle checked her phone for the first time all day, finding three missed calls from Gold. _Great._ She'd accidentally switched it to silent mode. She started dialing his number, but the library door opened and there he was, looking handsome and fresh as always in his trademark three-piece suit and one of her favorite purple ties.

"Hey!" A wave of relief crashed over her, and she hadn't known how badly she needed to see him until he walked through the door. If they hadn't been in public, she would have rounded the circulation desk and thrown herself into his arms. Instead, she settled for leaning over the counter for a quick kiss, but as he drew closer, the haunted expression on his face and the dark shadows around his eyes made her freeze.

"Hey," he replied, his eyes twin pools of anguish. "Is everything…are you all right?"

"I think I'm the one who should be asking you that question." She stared at him, trying to discern the myriad emotions crossing his face. She'd expected him to look happy and well-rested, but he looked terrible. She settled a hand against his clammy brow. "Are you sick?"

He shook his head. "No. But when I woke up you…you were gone." His voice was frosty, but she knew him well enough to recognize the pinched, strained look around his eyes. He was hurting.

Belle's heart leaped into her throat at the faint accusation in his tone. "Yes, I've decided to move in with Marco for a while and I wanted to hurry home…I mean, back to Edith and my father's house to pack."

"Oh. Good."

Belle blinked at his forced smile. Hadn't he read her note? "What do you mean, 'oh?'"

"I didn't say 'oh.' I said, 'Oh. Good.'"

She swallowed hard and glanced over at Neal, who was back on his ladder, doing a terrible job of pretending not to listen. She dropped her voice. "But that's not what you meant, was it?"

"You tell me, Belle." Gold glanced down at her neglected phone sitting on the desk between them. "I woke up this morning and you weren't there, lying next to me. I called you all morning and you didn't pick up. Then I track you down at the library and you announce your plans to move in with Marco without even mentioning it to me."

The pain in his dark eyes was now unmistakable, and her self-loathing mounted. At the same time, she wanted to cry in frustration. She was an adult, and she'd written him a note explaining herself before leaving. The last thing she needed after confronting Edith was another guilt trip.

"I'm mentioning it now!" Belle wailed.

"Excuse me, Belle, I couldn't help but overhear. Did you say Marco?" Cordelia practically hip-checked Gold and leaned toward Belle, her green eyes sharp and wide.

Belle knew that look; it was the same one Cordelia got when a box of new mystery romances was delivered to the library. Her assistant put a hand to her neck, which was beginning to turn a mottled red.

"Uh, yes," Belle said. "Why do you ask?"

"He's a fine man. So handsome and he's a chef. Perhaps you could arrange an introduction, now that other eligible bachelors are taken." Cordelia fluttered her lashes at Gold, then frowned at the stack of cookbooks Belle had set aside for Marco. "But not so long as he never comes into the library."

Belle sighed. Cordelia's ill-timed interruption wasn't all that was attracting attention. A dozen pairs of curious eyes had turned in her direction, waiting for her to continue arguing with her boyfriend. Now it was her turn to flush. They were making a scene. And Belle loathed being the subject of a scene.

"Belle…" Gold smiled tightly at Cordelia, and Belle could tell he was holding his patience in check. He slid his eyes toward her office. "Is there someplace more…"

She was already grabbing his hand and dragging him into the back corner of the library, and before the door to her office closed she was talking again, her words coming out in a painful rush.

"All my life I've been managing other people's expectations, Erskine. Trying to be what they want. Good enough. Pretty enough. Thin enough. No one decides for me anymore. I do!"

"Please, sweetheart, calm down." He enveloped her shaking hands in his, the turbulence in his eyes calming. "Please, please believe me. I'm not trying to run your life. I'm trying to be a part of it. People who love each other talk things out. They don't go it alone." He looked meaningfully at the suitcase and box parked next to her desk.

"I wasn't trying to 'go it alone' as you say," she said hotly, rounding her desk to stand behind her office chair.

"Then why did you sneak out in the middle of the night without waking me?" Gold ran his hand over his face.

"It wasn't the middle of the night…it was…I left you a note!" Belle banged her fist on the desk, and she was sure they could hear her outside among the stacks, but she was past caring. "I'm not a child!"

He followed her around the desk and put his hands on her shoulders. "Sweetheart, I know that, and I support your decision to move anywhere you want, but… I could have helped you. I could have been there for you when you packed, and stood by your side when you talked to your parents…" Soft brown eyes pleaded with her. "I'm here for you to lean on, and I want to fight for you. Not because I think you can't stand up for yourself, I know you can. But you don't always have to be strong on your own. I love you, Belle."

Sincerity laced every word he said, and Belle felt terrible for hurting him so. How could she make him understand? Her anxious thoughts last night had returned again and again to Edith's insults and her father's complacence, and the dam had broken. How could she make him see? This gentle yet powerful man, who had defended her honor. This brilliant soul who, instead of seeing a chubby, bookish loner who clung to her parents, saw beauty and someone worth loving.

But as much as he loved her, Belle knew she alone had the power to change her fate, to make different choices.

"Oh, Erskine," she took his hand in both of hers. "I know. I know you do. And I love you for it. I just needed to do this on my own. Not to prove anything to you, or to Edith, or to my father, but to me. It is—it had to be—my decision, you know? Not because I don't want you to be a part of everything, because I do…" She was rambling like an idiot. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to organize her thoughts. Then she opened her eyes and squeezed his hand. "Have you ever been in a situation where you've lied to yourself for ages and when you finally see the light and realize how wrong you've been, you can't believe you've been so stupid for so long?"

"I have, actually." Gold's hand fluttered up to her face, soothing her with gentle strokes against her warm cheek. "But even then, I was never as brave as you are. Shh, my sweetheart, shh. I hear everything you're saying, and you're right. I'm sorry that I came off heavy-handed. All I want is your happiness, Belle." He wrapped her in his arms, and Belle sank into his embrace, feeling cherished, protected, and understood.

"It's because you love me—you, Emma, Henry, Neal—that I finally see I'm not powerless. I don't have to be a victim. I _can_ change my circumstances," she explained. "And I'm sorry I ran out this morning without telling you more about my plans. I love you."

"And I love you." He crooned to her, pressing slow, sweet kisses against her hair, her ear, her cheek, then claimed her lips with a needy groan that made her pulse race.

xoxo

Neal opened the door to Belle's office, stopping in his tracks when he found his father and Belle wrapped around each other. They stopped and turned toward him, their eyes glazed and their lips red. _Crap._ Now he _had_ interrupted a private moment.

"Impeccable timing, son," Pop said as Belle wiped lipstick off his mouth with her thumb.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. "Sorry, I've been in and out of here all day working. I didn't think to knock. I left my drill bits, but I can come back." They all looked into the corner where the missing tools were.

"No, it's fine." Belle didn't pull away from his father, but rested her head on his chest, and the tight feeling in Neal's chest loosened. He liked how she was comfortable being affectionate with Papa in his presence. "Do you have more news for me about the ceiling?" she asked.

He gave her a grateful smile. Belle had such a gift for putting others at ease. "Actually, I do. My friend Tessa's gonna come in and check for asbestos, and then we're going to replace that part of the ceiling because Leroy's patchwork isn't cutting it anymore. She'll take samples, send them to the lab, and have results in about a day. If everything's good, we'll fix the ceiling and you can reopen by Tuesday."

"I trust your judgment," she said with a nod.

His father bent to kiss the top of Belle's head again, and he suddenly noticed how drawn and tired they both looked. "You guys all right?"

"It's been a rough day," Belle confessed. "But we're fine now, yes."

"Agreed," Gold nodded and reached for his cane. "How about a late lunch at Granny's? We could all use a decent meal. What do you say, son? My treat. I won't make a single comment about the lasagna."

"Why don't you boys go get a late lunch together, Dad?" His wife burst into Belle's office before he could respond, practically mowing him over to get to Belle. "Belle has a date. With me."

"Hey, Em." He grinned down at her fuchsia walking shoes. "It's that time already, huh?"

"Hey yourself." She leaned in for a kiss. "Has November always been this bright? I can't see a thing." She squinted. "Did you take my sunglasses this morning?"

He patted his front pocket and pulled out her sunglasses. "That's right, yeah. These are yours. Sorry, babe. Forgive me?"

"This time." She made a face at him, then turned toward Belle. "Ready to walk?"

"Yes!" Belle kissed his father's cheek and embraced Emma. "I'll get my jacket and we can go."

"Good, 'cause I have had a day. Taking engagement photos for the paper is the worst! Kathryn Midas is a freakin' bridezilla. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her and Frederick to elope and put the rest of us out of our misery! So yeah, need to get our exercise in and then we need to get drunk. Long Island Iced Teas for you and spiked hot chocolates for me. Maybe an order of cheese-smothered waffle fries thrown in there somewhere."

"Yeah, that sounds healthy," Neal said with a chuckle.

"Thanks, Coach." Emma winked. "I think we got this. All things in moderation, right Belle?"

"Right," Belle agreed, "including moderation. Go on ahead, Emma. I'll meet you at the front door."

He waggled his eyebrows at his wife and smacked her on the butt as she left, then bent to retrieve his tools from the corner of Belle's office. He tried not to laugh as Belle kissed his father one last time and whispered something that actually made his old man _giggle._ Now he had officially seen everything.

Yeah, he was a damn fine judge of character.

###


End file.
